No memories of hers
Resting by the glare of a broken pane
she has aged in the grace of past happenings
her breast heaving gently through the press of time
beating on her hopes as it would the anvil of Zeus.
Her hand rests upon her throat testing
the remnants of a life she stills counts on
she feels the pulse within the canals of purple paste
but ponders a moment ago what may come tomorrow.
Her flesh trembles in forgotten fibers afire
sending vibrations like lightnings to her thoughts
a new present arises among the shambles of a sham
she stretches in search of a last ecstasy.
She will not move paralyzed in her last intimacy
fantasizing about a past perhaps watching her go
imagining a future upon the cracks in the glass
she dares not take a step into another moment.
Images come to the passionate embrace of her warmth
they may be her children once or those of another
Christmas trees fallen upon the road to more holidays
celebrations to millions of her kin she recalls all.
Now panic settles and the machine beats like a hurricane
perhaps she had a chance at living once
now she fears only delusions implanted in her soul
she dies unaware of a biography other than strangers’.
Seeking a Language
How does one speak without words
to reach through the fibers of the realm
cross over to the one yet so close
when the air is thick as the walls of a citadel.
Where may the secret of this eternal language
be found in the human mire of false destinies?
How does one speak to the one he seeks
when the words are danger to those who love?
Seeking the cord to connect with other passions
how does one scream across the universe
unheard but to the recipient of the living message?
Boiling within he is only a presence now
unseen of all others blind as they desire
though the waves shock their weak frames
his language is silence in search of a soul.
I sit on the rocker by a dying fire
I look upon a flaming shadow upon your eye
and I wonder whether a child
I still am.
Poised in the grey dress of unending mornings
you stand silent in majesty
your chest still as if eternal
ready to pounce on this chilly dawn.
Aromas made of comforting memories arise
as the mist retreats around the aura
she leaves, innocent girl
she crosses her arms in defiance.
I lower my gaze to the dying fire
bowing to her ageless years
while a deep touch passes with the air
and she is but a shivering apparition.
Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and many other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications.