EVA
SUNDHOLMI
Sunset
Boulevard
celluloid slips through my fingers silvery
ships
dreaming film festivals a cigarette on Garbo’s
lips champagne in fluted crystal as four seasons of
mirrors lilies white roses chiffon gowns and
smog hangs over Stanwyk’s star a venomous
liquor promising box seats and backstage theater
only abscessing Sodom veins scarred the deep
purple of royal excess of sushi sharp knives and
red carpets with black velvet ropes diamonds
dripping from the whitest throat top hat tails
tango on black marble floors the piano plays
Cole Porter under an imported chandelier and
bums piss vodka lost in Clark Gable’s mustache a
winter rain mud and monsoon drowns her
audition head heavy with stardust only one more
and the gilded door arabesque swings on hinges of
inlaid chess boards the queen imperial jade a
carriage of eighty chestnut stallions proud with
arched neck and chrome highly polished under
moonlight that softens the sweet murder of
these
The Hero's Journey
I trudge through wailing tundra I push green
shoulders
slicing sharp wind pulling from magnetic pole strong like
snarling wolves who snap each heel with the persistence
of death while white snakes glide curve effortlessly
skimming sheets of ice spitting out forked tongues to
judge creation in ancient clarity daunting perpetual
motion like the phases of the moon inexorable while
needle rain pierces my eyes gutting all tears ice
wind singes my ears seals my lips steals my voice a
dark thief red and angry as the war drum the snakes
come still in tireless rhythm relentless hungry like
dusk who eats our days while I grab frozen breath to
slice forward another step from magnetic pole to
swallow sliver icicles straining toward the sun who
hides herself behind the western mountain so high so
dusted in arctic distance still the snakes suffer the
snow to cut like daggers the softest skin quiet stealthy
as the past and now I feel my bones groan crashing
against tired muscle the air cruel as smeared blood
until I stretch my mouth wide screaming in sacred fire
Skin Dirge in C Minor
I hate the word
acne.
A cacophony of consonants
harsh and cruel
like sand in crackerjacks.
I wish for words like
cream
fresh, young, smooth
like sweet tea on Sunday afternoon.
But not to be
for me.
Inequitable.
Acne.
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