Alice Writes an Essay on Maturity
On Maturity
by Alice
Life was much more interesting when I lived in my head.
On Maturity
by Alice
Life was much more interesting when I lived in my head.
The club is darkened, infused
with the musty smell
of an old building.
A spotlight halos
the blonde-wigged queen,
who holds the mic
up to her magenta lips
and slinks out her song
in a contralto voice. She sways
her blue sequined gown
into a shimmering prism.
The audience cheers
and whistles. She’s
the favorite, so far.
Other contestants wait
in a room down the hall.
Wigs rest
on felt pedestals,
shaky hands apply
heavy makeup
onto closely shaven faces.
Defiance
on this day
is all the more sweet.
Step outside.
Sunshine and heat.
Crowds of people dressed
in red, white and blue
mill about Main Street
pushing strollers,
waving flags. Dogs
sport red bandanas.
Food vendors peddle
barbeque ribs, brats,
beer, lemonade,
funnel cakes, shaved ice.
Uncle Sam, on stilts,
hawks balloons.
No one notices the bar,
much less guesses
its libertine bent.
On this Independence Day,
it’s just another
closed door.
the blacks of my eyes swell and wholly eclipse
my soul and in the dawning of this love, the shadows
in my heart are forced torrentially ajar.
our communion in fine fettle, the kilter corrected
we together wallow in the exoneration; the leaf turned
anew, a thread of heather where once was blight.
i invite you, again, into this warmth… you cheapskate
fuckin’ con, for now, you are generously absolved.
Sun spills through
the dusty glass churning
the rotting floor beneath
our feet in the old infectious ward.
Alabaster tiles cling
grimly to the wall,
room after room reaches
for the solace of the earth,
the soil, of an island built
from the leavings of subway
tunnels and immigrant tears.
until i woke up
in a wheelchair
My heart hiccups,
pitter patters,
polar bear plunges
into the depths
of my warm belly.
All of this, to say
I love you.
After everything, winter still fell away into summer.
The nest of crows filled and emptied. You watched
at different angles.
Outside: cigarette butts and discarded couches,
their stuffing greyed and congealing.
After everything, rain. Baby crows cried to eat.
You watched the mother tear spaghetti from the dumpster.
In spring, the trees greened over the electric wire
and you were still breathing.
Would you rather remain unaware of it all
and never know your heart’s certain economies?
In sleep she was deep into
A sweeping wind
That creeped
And caused her to keep
Adjusting her leap
Making a sound of weeping
Seemed to bring on weaving
Her thoughts into a pattern
All while sleeping.
