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Poetry Journal |
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Every Man Is Listening Elizabeth P. Glixman I am wearing pearls for you Under our bed You cannot see the whiteness I am wearing pearls to frighten Demons and beaters To align myself with Mars Courageous and enduring No weapons No sting is in these words Under the springs that sway as you sleep I dance around the sun The moon is quiet Dust storms ripple the contours My face poked marked for years Dam mascara drips ink around the nostrils I can’t see to put it on Phobos and Deimos Fear and terror my satellites Mean men no harm I am not of war as the nurses say And you thought before you closed your eyes With shield and spear I am active energy Raw reaching out for your sleeping puffs of air Sentient numbers fly from my lips They multiple into days years secluded centuries half man half woman halved cerebellum Square roots walk on wetland mushrooms grow in their decay Quantification is the piercing voice I count the dead the babies The lizards in the sand every comet that swerves toward earth is documented Filed in cabinets with swiveling hips In history books where Caligula rules It is happening fast Chaotic and vibrant blackened suede creamy My golden threads fall into your arms My nails are death cells My breath is bleach I am disappearing It is happening faster than the speed of everything Every man knows demolition The demise of muscle and hair follicles Fluids dry and blow Cellular tumble weed parched with thirst Woman know the seismic event They have ovaries that hold tight Fists clenched with memories of creation I hear myself say I will be your joy stick We can ride space crash like cymbals My ripeness is booming Forever I believe I have black blinders on emerald eyes Next to your top hat and tails Your thoughts stretched on wire And swells of sky where angels float I am your wide legged and moist dreamscape Categorize my flora and fauna Against concrete and wood in your hand I am a virgin in the temple of joy A geisha girl in the land of the sun My hair shines in its spaciousness You see red planets in the sky The Parthenon crumbles Planes hit the Pentagon Bridges fall They are not my Mars Marie Antoinette offers you cake Martin Luther King speaks of dreams You sew yourself together roughly leaving open spaced seams as your mother calls It is 1951 I am born It is 1830 you have died It is all the same this time around Hear your mother’s bones call Surrender there is nothing else to do Time ticks like the hum of a refrigerator The sound of water against a well The cries of birth Time ticks Like men‘s hearts in battle There are shadows on everyone’s hands I am a female crucified in the dark wanting to be in your arms in the hot sun With our eyes as halos 1920 The sky was covered with peaches when I was young They were yellow and fuzzy topped with carrots Cauliflower flavored pears And lettuce hit the planets It was a mess Birds with music in their chests And plastic dolls without pubic hair fell from the air And swam my nightly skies Torrid in bed I lay From the blanket where I sweat I saw my cat on the green grass eating hot dogs all beef Devouring like I did at the backyard picnic before the alka seltzer hit I was Eve not yet a rib watching the peaches in the sky My lips were fuzzy and tingled I changed into my embryonic swimsuit The waves swept hypodermic needles to the shore The whales beached The rain forest gone Under the sunscreen I tell you it is hot You are the boy of my dreams Your face is covered with peach fuzz from the sky And your eyes are red like carrots Long After Hepatitis has devoured your liver You are quiet on the bed When we were budding I was your dream Now under the blankets I sweat estrogen I need a water filter There are carcinogens in the pipes I don’t know the landlord’s name. He lives in Connecticut in a big house With his six children and a dog There is a picture over you Monet haystack glistens in this world of your crumpling bones And without moisture skies My sharp tongue is the needle that calls you To search its unsettled pinkness at dawn. The stitches on your nightshirt And am I still your dream Be careful what you say if you could talk Every man is listening In his wheel chair with his prostate cancer The nurse wipes his ass His limp lust unconscious in comas Sleeping dreamlessly on the mattress with the plastic Hoping not to pee in his pants like when he was born |