Artists you should know - February 2011

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HerstoryShe has a mouth on her,
that woman down the street
with the magpie eyes
and the skin that shrinks away from touch.
She's a firework,
that woman with the ramrod spine:
she says she doesn't need a man
and two joined hands at the altar
are two hands wrapped in chains.
They murmur about her,
those women up the road -
in the grocery, at the bank -
painting whispered targets on her turned back.
They are caged birds, she says:
silent slaves in their own homes
tucking helpless husbands into bed
and wiping liquor-stained kisses
from their lips.
She lives outside of their boxes,
that woman with warnings splashed over her skin.
She lives strangely, gloriously.
Deliciously.
Her skin is her own;
her words belong to her own lips.
Much better, she thinks, to rule alone
than to hide meekly behind a man;
much better to be a rocket, a supernova,
a voice cutting through the chaos and the chains
like a meteor
blazing through the heavy dark. the primrose pathit would be a quick thing,
she figured -
a simple slip
from the shivering limb of the willow
tree,
the breathless swoop
catching
the daisies wrapped round
her slender neck;
brocade skirts blossoming
as they seized
the breeze of her fall.
it was a long thing,
truthfully -
water gushed numb
through that slender throat
as daisies bobbed prettily, kissing
heat
into chiffon cheeks.
breathless had become her most
hated word
by the time
she thrashed for air;
and as her mouth at last parted
as if for a wish,
for a kiss,
she mused that
the primrose path
was nothing close to painless... wanderingWe in winter are wanderers,
strolling lazy through sunslashed trees,
twined by elbows and fingertips
and the soft slip of our lips.
I find us in the quick shiver
of cold noses and smooth skin,
in the warm flush of wanting
and in slow kisses beneath the trees.
There is something of summer in our winter -
something loose-lipped and lingering -
though the air snaps crisp, clean,
and our kisses taste faintly of coffee and cream.
I will miss tangling with the warm sweet of you
and the tug-of-war of our words
but there - in the sunlight - and there - in the chill -
we are wandering
still.


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