IN MY DREAMS

In my dreams
I stand, naked, at the window,
a parched desert,
waiting for you.

We are young again,
eager to touch
and re-arrange
shimmering prisms
of passion and hope.

"As long as we have each other --"
you told me whenever thunderclouds
darkened our horizon.
As long as we had each other,
no loss was final.

In my dreams
I understand
you are still here,
wanting me,
dancing in my heart.

                          published in "Northern Ontario Speaks"
                                        Northern Ontario Poetry Collection
                                        Volume 19, 2014.

Prodigal Daughter

Perturbs you, does it, Daddy dearest,

that I spread my thighs for strangers

to earn my daily bread 

and crème de menthe?

"Why?" you ask. I don't know. 

But my heart gloats to see you squirm.

 

"I gave you everything!" 

you bluster self-importantly. 

Indeed you did. 

Your thoughts, your plans, your dreams. 

Remember that tax-deductible soirée of yours, 

complete with rented flesh? 

You got so drunk you would have taken me 

(I saw it in your eyes), 

but there are some things even I won't do.

If I married into your caviar crowd, 

would that be any different?

Roll over, smile on demand, 

battered, bartered -- for what?

It's killing my mother, you tell me. 

She's too far gone to phone? 

Her bleeding heart's reserved 

for painted ducks and baby seals! 

"Fastest draw in the West with a cheque book," 

you smile indulgently, 

"but I can afford it." 

Affirmation on demand -- that's her cocaine.

Forty short days, you plead. 

Forty days in a mink-lined cell 

to make me fit for your table; 

clinking your stemware, wearing your dresses, 

high on designer drugs prescribed by your shrink-- 

courtesy of high-yield Third World blood and tears.

In the empty morning hours I waver, 

muster a nostalgic tear or two 

before the downers kick in. 

When I awake, I paint my face 

and go to war once more.

I sell diversion 

from the dreary demons of inconsequence. 

You buy and sell the lives of voiceless children. 

Keep your forgiveness. 

You need it more than I do.

Second Chance

I was a garden once,

alive with hope.
One by one the seedlings died
starved or crushed
by faulty guides,
hens scolding
ducks for craving water.

I disappointed everyone
or so I thought.
My trembling smile
pleaded for absolution,
claiming no right
to disappointment of my own.

Forbidden seeds still wait
charred seeds of rage
push swell crack
until I see at last
through my own eyes

Men are from Mars

Into your eyes
I venture
deeply....
you bend to kiss my breast,
uncertainties scrabbling
to hide
beneath abandoned
memories.

A museum of hurts
frozen at attention,
white-lipped, refusing
to cry out.

I lie back,
and in your hands
I touch yesterday's child
soaring with superheroes
(limping now, lost in dusty detours).

Almost at the centre
I find myself,
shut out and angry,
yet somehow knowing
and accepting all.



June '97

Friday Night Wrestling

SHE:
Who calls the shots?
Do you own me?
Do I own you?

HE:
We've got it all, baby!
Microwaved gourmet meals,
wine from a kit,
Dr. Phil and Fear Factor,
soaps and sportscasts,
two TVs.

SHE:
Wake up!
We’re going nowhere
in our dollhouse,
bobbing
on waves of mediocrity,
fogged with the stench
of rotting dreams.

HE:
So what did you expect?

SHE:
I hoped for Superman,
not Ken.

HE:
You wanted Superman?
You're not exactly Lois Lane, you know.

SHE:
That's it! No more.
I'd rather drown
than suffocate.

HE:
Are you so sure?
For every willing Ken,
there's Barbies galore
lined up waiting . . .

SHE:
Deep breath.
Plunge.
Clean break.
Not even a ripple.

HE:
Who's next?
Step right up!
The show must go on.

Veneer

I never noticed the plastic
building up
layer by silent layer--
I was too busy
unearthing new worlds
to remodel.

Creatrix, disruptrix,
lighting up my universe
with dazzling smiles,
no second guesses.

Ouch!
Why did I let you touch me?
You scratched my veneer!