 Photo Art by Reka Jellema What-If
(For Bea Last) If the paint dries, it dries. No question; nothing stays saturated. A fresh coat? A fence-post? Canvases crack. The face of the actress. But what if green was more than green, if green was verdant dewy, sweating grass beneath your fingertips, bottle-glass-green, smooth jeweled chips of green glass you find washed on shore what if you pocketed the color & it bled through the fabric, what if the gallery called & commissioned your blue jeans what if the denim faded By Reka Jellema Copyright April 2016 for lisa weatherbee cordero in memory of margery hummingbird your body was a blur of sparkles pink and purple a little girl in a powder blue tutu & ballet slippers had nothing on you buzzing round my head making a beeline for the feeder we filled with red sugar water if you know me little birds you know that thirst for the word for assurance for a bulb to break the earth with its green fist & unfurl.....   Last April Poem
I tried to push him out of my hole, toad, but he wouldn't go. Too big, they said, my legs spread for the poem. This was after those forced breaths, after I mauled your hand, bit a Popsicle stick, gave someone a bloody lip, someone in scrubs cleaned up and then I got lubed a word, two -- got through, nothing like a fully-formed three-liner someone put on a 45, Elvis. Squeeze your pelvis, whispered the poem. I'm stuck in your passage. A cheap shot, no doubt about it, as his head popped and stuff gushed... sometimes a frog sings, said the zen, sometimes it sticks out its tongueBy Reka Jellema Copyright 2016 |
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