My Love
because he wore blue
I noticed his eyes
because his smile was crooked
I smiled back
because our first kiss was so clumsy
I said, “We can do better”
because his family were cool
I kept my name
because his brothers bred like rabbits
I had to be barren
because we match wits and socks on laundry day
because I never made him choose
he chose me
when we first met
you were seated at the left-hand corner of God
something you said told me
there was synchronicity at work
with each encounter you drew me on
I blared my rawness my want
I was silver trumpets fuchsia beads at Mardi Gras
all neon all wolf whistle all desire
you my lodestone my anthem my magnetic north
I iron filings
Directions
He cedes from our union
wends west;
I, east with ambitions
to fix the world,
unlock the mysteries of the brain
stamp out disease, save lives
or so I say
Autumn arrives
I fall back lose hours
scrape through the motions of making the grade
to pass my heart less engaged
ennui’d I become a Christmas grad
and I’ve been thinking of spring
all winter long
Fowl Play
She walked through the still night.
From a pool the bird beckoned;
a swan slow, silent, regal
played music with great wings.
Snowpure he uttered whispers,
soft secrets, assurances.
She fell into hypnotic black eyes;
and tossed her will to his consuming soul.
Blacker souls crept among the trees,
witnessing him toy with her, his game.
His serenade captivated her, bewitched her.
Leda saw, heard, felt it all
as if from a distance.
At dawn, he lifted his milkwhite plumage
to the grey air, leaving her.
Central Park is no place to be at night.
-30-
Rebecca Clifford lives in rural Southern Ontario. She enjoys word painting, creating new words, resurrecting archaic ones and, along with life’s flotsam and jetsam, incorporating it into her work. She is supported in these endeavours by her partner and a cat of questionable parentage.
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