Yellow curls, tobacco-stained sheaves of wheat,

wave in the wind

as you dance across boundaries

you insist don't matter;

crimson glass in your left hand--

your right holds the pen

that stirs your madness;

 

tease and cajole,

slap and kick,

and then the sinking feeling

as my stomach drops

with an uncomfortable giggle.

 

My heart folds into sleep deep,

burrowed in the cavernous empty space

where another dream once lived.

 

You felt like a schoolyard ball

that punches the solar plexus

with a deep singing sound.

The maidens swayed softly to your music,

and my song was the deep groan 

of an underwater animal

who swells in pain beneath the surface.

 

Each sip you poured 

drained me;

and you cloaked yourself

in the powerless

while taking smug pleasure in watching me weaken,

in leaving my bones brittle from heartbreak;

your shtick was more choreographed than a ballet;

you were too in love with being worshipped

and with going through the motions of questioning authority,

of sticking it to the man

in that phony sixties way the young women lapped up,

to dare show us how to rise up and move

on our own.

 

I was your slave.

I kept your beat.

All the while protesting

but slowly losing my feet

in a terrible Tarantelle

faster and faster

racing against

the poison from your bite.

 

I could not shake you off.

With every move it got worse.

I could not stop spinning

like a splintery wood top,

my young girl mind 

left dessicated and barren,

tearing good men limb from limb,

too dizzy to notice

how pitiful you are!

 

Now I am a grown woman.

And I am wide awake.

I pulled myself back up,

ashamed and duped.

How could I have done this to myself?

I live remembering that I was

the delerious victim of a salesman,

but in motion upward nonetheless.

 

 

When I glance over my shoulder,

I see you twisting aimlessly

in the exact same place I left you,

like chaff tumbling around,

breaking into bits and particles,

you are smaller and smaller in the distance

and spark no fire under my feet anymore.

The only thing remarkable

is that my eyelids don't even flutter. 

 

 

The pen I once thought was only yours to grasp

is in my hand now.

I march alongside

the poets and the rebels

who chose to risk it all for justice;

They teach me to speak, write, live

with one foot in front of the other

with compassion

walking what we talk

until we reach real freedom, real life.

 

These steps we take are no delusion,

and our footprints are no dream.