January 19, 2011

3 Poems by Carla Martin-Wood

Final Curtain

Oh the sanctity of that last morning,
when early light fluttered through pristine curtains
upon the morning’s white and weightless breath,
before the heavy moments, one-by-one,
took toll upon the scale. I recall
a cobalt bowl of lemons, artlessly arranged,
bundle of dew-wet herbs, sweet narcissus,
purr of the cat weaving round my ankles,
or battling dust motes in the sunlight,
while I whisked eggs for omelets,
and you, singing off-key in the library,
Robert Johnson’s Crossroads Blues.


Copyright 2010, Carla Martin-Wood, from Flight Risk, Fortunate Childe Publications



Jaded

The lens of time focuses without distortion,
untwists the truth, untells the lie,
we only waded shallows,
you and I never stepped off
the underwater shelf to plumb the depths
of self or seek the mystery, find the treasure,
we lip-synced the expected words
of pleasure, mimed the show
in borrowed rooms,
where borrowed strangers go,
wallpaper torn and velvet art, liquor cart
strewn with juiceless limes and cheap tequila,
sullen days sung off-key,
strung on a thread of delusionary scars,
each a bead of prayer to some lost god,
centerpiece of rusted crucifixes,
maker of tinfoil stars.


Copyright 2010, Carla Martin-Wood, from Flight Risk, Fortunate Childe Publications



Witness

I can testify that you lived
to the end of the rhyme,
to the final iamb,
to the shadows of the couplet
we formed on your bed,
in a room where the only sound
was our breathing as one,
where the pools of your eyes
drew me down,
your mouth an animal,
seeking refuge in the caves of my body,
your soul grown dark like moss,
hidden between the lilies of my breasts,
so that Hunter Death lost
his quarry for a moment,
seeing only one lying there,
until night dropped below the skyline like a stone
and morning came at last,
the small, grey sparrows of our lives
fallen to earth unnoticed.


Copyright 2010, Carla Martin-Wood, from Flight Risk, Fortunate Childe Publications


Four times nominated for The Pushcart Prize, Carla Martin-Wood is the author of the recently released One Flew East, as well as Flight Risk and How we are loved, all full-length collections of her poetry (Fortunate Childe Publications).

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