Perdu46

Unbroken She got him all wrong, the strong arms gone to brittle.  Clay is troubled to form the impression.  And longer the art of your dented and salted mire. For nothing like a walk in the boneyard of the cheap motel of her imagination.   You are Rant and Ruin.  The Remains crust and smoke  Tomorrow of her old age is the rat trails of her poetry I know this because she told it to the murk and creep of your deteriorating smoke.  The last toke was unimaginable. Run far and away from the  wrinkled visage of memory. You are red and ruins in a slot of yesterday. Today runs through her like wine and bread.  The table is set for never again your chair is broken silt. Caroline Shank 3.22.2023

Frere Jacques Are you sleeping up there in the stone parapet in which you spend your time writing letters and showing how you can trip the light fantastic with no one watching. You,  where you retreat to listen to music. To read your books  and with wine dream,  like Miniver Cheevy, of the days of roses.  Do you think of me? My perfume you were so fond of.  Oh, how I adored you! I am not allowed to climb the steps to your so private sanctuary.  The locked door reminds me of your pledge to God to leave me and the child.   We are not yours, not anymore.  You with your hunched shoulders crying "That is not all, that is not it at all."  Your dead heroes replace me. I should have gone away before I knew you loved me.  But how could I?  I will tomorrow shows me a new place to hide away Think of me when you are inside with your plans and dreams.,  and I am on the outside scrolling across the long years in which I am stranded...

Long Days Long days.  Night slithers through the door and I reach for you.  I believe in the wisp of  twilight, the smell of dope  and your arm around my  shoulder. The cross we bear.  The map of night is written and I must go.  Never, the tears.  I stare at your mouth.  We kiss the chalice of each others love.  The mass of yesterday sanctified a long litany of love unanswered.  I hate the sound of the bells.   I am brought to my knees. An old woman genuflects, A tear falls.  I confess my sins but never you.   You, you belong to the  dusking dreams.   Caroline Shank  5.26.21

Gethsemane  It's April snow on daffodils.  Yellow stains on the white sky.  Drops from God to salve the  feral pain.  I wait for tulips that are encased in green buds.  A lot of  energy in the making of a flower.  It reminds me of a prayer.  I think my Azalea has gone for soldiers, and the lilacs wait for me to heal.  The faces in this  garden look to find you.  I am all alone with my prayers,  this station is one before the  Crucifixion. My Garden waits  for our reconciliation as  snow floats on in time past  and time future.  Now is not our cup of Salvation.   Forgiveness is not our business.  Caroline Shank 

Sylvia You sucked death like a fruit. For twenty years you did dying. You had an art. Your father left you in the pit of childhood. He went into his end dustless and without asking. At twenty you wore a strap less black wish. You drank until you’d drunk ten father less .s. Dun years, you beat his coffin. Your fists never bled. Smashed hands were a ticket. You knew how to make him die, die, die. Twenty was your real death. Capsules saved like candies. It was close. It was not close enough. Thirty was a party. Show off show woman do it again. Come back to see your baked  brains on my paper. Your  poems are spread out like cards. I play your deal in War. I lean over my poetry. Thirteen years beyond you I know death. I shake at your familiarity with me.

I Believe in You This long life has been informed by love.  We shared each other Oh! for so  short a time.  Like fruit we hung onto the sweet drops of new nectar's night.  We peeled each other to the pink skin of sighs.  It was a delicate scent when blown into the stars quiet Space.  We sped into the walls of destiny and crashed in the pulp of sorrow.  But I miss you in this  orchard of dessicated memories.  I am rawed by the thought of you.  Caroline Shank 4.16.21