Page 7 - Fluxion Art Journal Issue 1

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Adalia Shchvrowsky
I lay on his pillow
to make up for the space
in his disappearance.
My stomach churns with cancer
smoke too filthy to swallow,
already dissolved when I exhale.
A collective breathing for an
invisible prince and his child bride.
Trying to keep my chest occupied
by plucking flowers from sheets,
counting petals each,
and singing bones to sleep.
His silhouette rises and falls as Adonis
pure and passionate.
I, Ophelia, lay in the cloaked room
breathing the feathered words
from his rich lips.
(sweet as ambrosia/
poisonous as death.) if I gaze too long-
my heart squirms and sighs
for some hint of relief.
This is a pleasant torture.
To die,
to sleep,
perchance to dream only
as the mortal may.
My sleep is escape
whilst his is a stage.
Tears flood these eyes
as I know no patience.
No Truth,
just fear of pain.
I stab myself knowingly.
To Anne
They are discussing your secrets again.
Doctors and ethicists poke at your grave
and gossip over the validity of
interruption and execution.
Validity holds no importance
to a poet, only exploitation.
I believe you are getting more than
you bargained for.
What serpents hide under her skirts?
What rotten fruit did she sow?
Soon they all will know
and congratulate themselves
with valiant ignorance.
Let them not twist your words
like they did your mind.
You are not dial-a-confession.
They buried you with your underwear still on.
I pray for death
like my own wedding,
my own weeding.
I polish each day, hoping it attracts him to the door.
The day is tedious and demanding.
It comes on like a sermon and presses me
like so much dead weight, heavy with its
worthless illuminations.
But night is a lover who drops his
cape at the door
and devours me with immediate necessity,
caressing my precious disasters.
It can grow icicles on flower stems.
I am its nervous bride.