Darling, its not me
you want
with all of your
imagination.
You do not want my hands
or my knees
You don’t want the bends of my wrists
or the bleeding feet.

With your unmastered importunity,
or so-called
groveling at my feet,
I’ve found what I’ve searched for
through the scope of my vanity,
devilishly peeking
around corners and over ladders
through the eyes of ancient masters
to entreat the secrets hidden within
the deep encasement of your
fortified mansion.

How dark the windows,
shrouded with brocade velvet,
black-on-black,
tête-à-tête
with the horrors of your haunted
past living in locked-up closets,
in forgotten, sealed-off rooms.

I long to cast despair
from every corner of couches and chairs,
to re-sheet the beds,
and silver polish to a blinding glare.
Yet only pity hides in care
cloaked in flirtatious youth
disguised by pretty hair.

But I am no wedded mistress,
or even hired servant,
to trust with rings of keys,
or ring of gold.
Your tongue has told
that your desire and hope
lie
with my proving a temptress,
moving to undress
the locks of a treasure chest
so chastely guarded.

No!
My mind, my character, my wholeness of self
is no measure for the value of commitment.
No open flower tells of desired hours,
sitting side by side in chairs on porches,
or traveling together to adventure golden forests.
Forget my offers, my interest,
my batted eyelashes and persevered wishes,
to stay close at hand,
or same in stride,
with one for whom only,
I am just rice.

I am worth more than a brothel price.
My name is not paradise.




2/24/2009

Labels: paradise, poem, poetry