Whyzat Damsel Leave, Whyzat Damsel Go

Whyzat Damsel Leave, Whyzat Damsel Go
copyright @aladreth

"Thought is a garment and the soul’s a bride 
That cannot in that trash and tinsel hide: 
Hatred of God may bring the soul to God."
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright


She should know
I would be making marriage
with her by now
but I must play "hard to get,"
I have to back scatter, resist heavy hand
I can’t be like venus fly trap to black widow,
iron hippo with bullwhip or tiger on crack
making tiger food of every long legged brunette.

She’ll say she likes that painting
there or starry waters singing along
with transistor radio
and I will pretend her touch
has not imprinted my too white skin.

I will not answer her
When she says she’s done her hair
a certain chewed up sexy way
just for me.
Because she’s like rocking water
and sunlight along a table of
three new moons rising over
emerald green Emu eggs.

I want her
so desperately but I can’t appear
needy
or greedy,
I can’t be speedy,
Each Spring narcissistic bulb
must appear on its own,
a fertile Queen
for cat scan
of uterus tracking device,
must be prepared for
bitter male litigation,
and sex after funerals.

One day
she’ll moan
via violin bow,
she’ll take me
to her language,
it will feel old,
our shared breath,
our kinship will be
with the trees
and fish
(fish are nice)

even if we are no one
we will appear as goddesses
making love to other goddesses
we will master poetry
like edible weed salad
two words stretch marking
fat bellies, places they shouldn’t go
together
like Maine crabs and pear orchards
fucked fire, Berlin buttercups
orange coins with purple rock style wrists

poetry is so bad,
unless we get lucky,
her and I
commanding - rubbing - smooth - loving
we’ll be a luscious licked labia couple
until the day she says to me,
"Honey, that don’t make a word,"
and I’ll rebelliously reply,
"It’s free verse, baby, it’s free verse."