Marie Anzalone - 3
Foreign Invasion:and then it so happened,
one time, you randomly asked of me, what happens if you fall in love? I think it is inevitably linked to any other type of foreign invasion. The host mounts a response; native elements prepare for defense or assimilation. There is cross-cultural juxtaposition, a lot of negotiation, some treaty- or cease fire, as the case may be. Castles are built in haste, moats defended. Rejection of an alien landscape, or surrender to a greater force. Be it for war, or be it a peaceful acquisition- there is no way to avoid confrontation. Love is always a full-scale foreign occupation: a coup of common sense, an installation of provisional governance. Dandelion SeedsThis becomes my favorite part of every day-
the place where I collect thoughts and write them, to you. Even when there is nothing much to say. Small winged flying things and the halo of ice crystals surrounding the moon weigh equally with promotions and demotions, life, death, and rebirth. My dream is that one day my description of how the sun rose golden pink today, lets you know, simply, that you were part of its rising. That you may find my “I love you” as a message hidden between lines of mundane things, scattered like so many dandelion seeds in the wishes my heart makes to my mind each time I find a few quick words for decorating your day. Losing the MagicBut you will lose her-
the day you make her always reach out to you. When you stop believing she has something to contribute to your world; when she cries at night from old fears and new and there is nothing below her to hold on to: you will lose her. When you assume to know all the answers without asking the questions, when you judge her present without knowing her past; when you are afraid that her brilliance makes you shine less, so you tell her she must be less than who was made to be; when you tell her who her God wants her to be, and stop trusting her own voice. When you ask her to give up her world to make yours feel less small. When she carries the world on her shoulders and feels alone doing so; when busyness dictates whether or not you respond the times she needs your hand; when your fear that she could never love someone such as you, makes you stop trying, when excuses outweigh compliments, when you see her only for what she has failed to accomplish, when you think she is weak for no longer holding back the water that fills her longing to be something great, to someone worthy. When her greatness becomes an annoyance, when her feelings stop being heard. The day you stop believing in magic, in love, in her. If she has any self-respect: you, my friend, you will lose. Her. Hunter's Moon, October 27In the North woods tonight, it is rutting season.
The deer have invested their month of gains preparing for the lean season; the bucks like their does with a little extra in the rump these weeks. They trumpet snorts and calls of lust Across thickets, scrub, grasslands. Loudly. It is the Hunter’s Moon. Life sustaining fat and hormones at full peak. Replication of life for the sake of life; Expression of love for the sake of love, The taking of life in love for the sake of forward progress. And I grew up in the North Woods, of course. The days grow shorter, parallel to my desire to introvert I prepare to either migrate or hibernate, worriedly, watching me put on my own winter stores. I draw a sweater tight, watch the north for arrivals of migratory winged things. I slow, want to spend more time abed. We were never meant to work these southern breakneck paces 365 days a year. A body long in motion wants to rest. Or something. Maybe the only person I want to see, sometimes, is you. Something in the way I love you is different. The moon looks closer now, from where I stand; there is both more and less urgency to words, thoughts. I will watch the moonrise tonight. I will measure the diminishing distance between hearts, minds. Weigh intentions in acorns, sunflower seeds, and squash. I will run my hands down my own sides, In the soft bright glow Thinking of how to best prepare the house special, and of hunters, moons, and unattainable needs. Hoping you, like your northern counterparts, like your rump a little on the soft side. Tender, and succulent. And loud.
|
At the Edge of VisionHow does one walk
with her body appropriated for use in pieces? My skin makes me a caricature passing through your streets, a stereotype of humanity; my sex, my skin- make me a conquest, a curiosity. I have the anonymity of the homeless- The person most watched, but never seen. The invisible one of greatest visibility. Presence without belonging, I remain at the edges of knowing, without finding a center of power. A mind whose ideas are not formed or presented in the mandated format. A mouth without a voice. An artist of Life, without an exhibition. I stand at the border, at the convergence of all things, under the protection of the night, where you cannot see my otherness. And I stay here- shedding my hopes like so much clothing of a size too small, arranging fragments into something that resembles a woman. Once again. Looking for the door that will make me feel- less invisible. Maternal Line:If you were my daughter:
you would know the joy of walking barefoot on a rainy day And how mud squelches just so between your toes And how the air smells of rebirth and uncried tears from what life throws in your direction, every day. You would know the stars in their constellations better than the ones on television, and the color of your dreams would matter more than the color of your nail polish. You would know how to enjoy going to the movies or to the beach or on vacation, alone. You would enter the playing field in tennis shoes, not sandals. The integrity of your “no” would value as much as your “yes,” and you would know to reject anyone who thinks otherwise. You would learn how to forgive, walk away from, and firebomb your enemies- and which application suits what situation. Without apology. If you were my daughter, you would never need to hide or deny or negate your love, and its expression; you would never be ashamed of your desires and passions. your boyfriend or girlfriend would be welcome in my home. And when love forsakes you, when dreams elude you, when employers overlook you, when life abuses you in the street- you will learn the truth That the same genes that give compassion also produce warriors- and they are hereditary in the maternal line. Last SundayI saw you clearly tomorrow,
and I will search for you yesterday- this. This is trying to find Neptune colored ethics in a world that is just learning of the full spectrum of gray. When a man admires a woman, he praises her beauty. What recourse is for woman? There is no measured “goodness” equivalent, for defining a man. Only to see the way light hits the water at full midnight, when boundaries between whatifs dissolve in a soft closely draped fog I wear like a garment I can hold tight with one hand, or let fall as needed. When I sit quietly, I remember a future with you; and if I look real carefully at the horizon, all possibilities remain with the arrival of each last Sunday of the past decade. LighthouseAt 3 am, my thoughts inevitably
turn to you. Something happens in moonlight. Dark heat rises like steam from pavement, and I am feasting upon a diminishing bowl of false propriety. A woman dying of thirst, presented a well of 30 feet, and a rope of 25. At these moments, the only restraint may be measurable distance between houses. Were you here, I would demonstrate what eternity meant when it told the night: prepare to be devoured in pieces, so that the whole comes to life, birthed in its own searing audacity, covered with the fluids of its first arrival. Honesty at NightDo you remember?
I seem to recall a triple sunrise somewhere with you. We lit a fire on the shores of a past tense. Who could have known, then, about lighthouses that shine beacons across the entirety of galaxies; the pre and post memories of human belonging? |
