Two Haibun Poems by Marie C Lecrivain

 

I didn’t do the stupid thing…

   even as curiosity warred with my sense of safety. At 17, and as a newly licensed driver, I spent my nights exploring the boundaries (and beyond), of my small town. Some nights I’d drive the I-5 until the gas gauge dropped to one quarter tank, turn around, and head back home. I loved those clear desert star-filled nights, windows open, as I blasted synth pop from the radio. On Mondays, I’d visit the local library, where I spotted  an older man, blond, mid 30s, who sat in the same spot every night with a stack of philosophy books. He’d look at me over the rim of a book, smile, and then go back to reading. One night, I found him waiting for me in the parking lot. He walked over to my car, opened the passenger side door, and sat down. He asked me where I lived. I told him I was from out of town. He smiled, took my hand, and said he already knew I was a local girl. I pulled my hand away, and put it on the steering wheel. He pointed to a black Ford truck three spaces from mine and told me he lived around the corner. I said that was nice. He invited me to follow him home. His eyes were dark stones. I said ok. He reached out and  caressed my cheek. I tried not to flinch. As soon as he exited my car, I turned on the ignition, and peeled out of the parking lot.

 

cold stars

will never 

protect me

Strange Perfection

On a late afternoon walk, I spy a crane in the cemented shallows of Ballona Creek. Pure white, black billed, the crane gently dips its head into the murky water for a drink. Why is it here, in Culver City, instead of the Playa del Rey wetlands where it belongs?

In my mind, I impose a different scene. Instead of a crane, it's an ibis, one of the sacred birds of Thoth, standing in the Nile River. The detritus and algae beds are now lotuses. The stench of sewage is replaced with the rich smell of silt.

I watch the crane move through the water. Its inverse reflection keeps perfect time with its tangible. Their synchronicity is a great gift. As the crane travels upstream, it leaves a trail of concentric ripples in its wake.

in one blink

the portal closes

between then and now

Marie C Lecrivain is a poet, co-publisher of Sybaritic Press, and an ordained priestess in the Ecclesia Gnostica Catholica, the ecclesiastical arm of Ordo Templi Orientis. Her work has appeared in Turtle Island Poetry, Gargoyle, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Nonbinary Review, Orbis, Pirene's Fountain, and other journals. She's authored several books of poetry and fiction, including Ashes to Stardust: A David Bowie Tribute Anthology ( © 2023 Sybaritic Press).