[post-modern poetesses.]
were you sylvia then, or sexton?
was i dorothy, shoeless, or the inscription writer hiding in the eaves?
i still write love poems to you even though we never were lovers,
only twins broken apart by lovers that were not eachother but who knew us as two halves,
even when we were in thirds and sixteenths and fragmented across bordering statelines-
me with longer hair and you with shorter.
last night i made a list of the most influential women in my life
and you were first
even before my mother, the blessed queen of swords,
the martyr that traded her sanity for my own depleting one,
her face (as you know)
painted now over my own.
in my magazine i saw your photo:
you had long legs and blonde hair,
pink fingernails and torn wings,
you were crying ink,
crying long black streams disguised as mascara running
down a cheek paler than my own.
ive already written you four letters that i will never send
because they are not enough-
and although you think its out of laziness (as i know you know it often is)
this time it is not.
this time
its because i want to keep your blue sparkled dress
and sweat whiskey as i dance in it,
dye my hair blonde and sing the blues in it,
be the girl in the picture that i once saw wearing it
before she invited me back home
to the valley
before i knew it was home,
even though , somehow, she did.
its true-
i wanted to write you and remind you of a memory you had forgotten,
rip into your chest and put it back there
but i could not think of one,
couldnt see myself erased out of any part of your past,
i was always there
humming dylan tunes behind you, fuzzy and out of focus,
hidden in the drainboard or disguised as the cat.
i wanted to write you the letter you NEEDED,
the one you had to turn your music off for in order to read,
the one to fill your empty cups, my queen.
i wish i had a memory of us that i don't feel older than.
i remember, you know.
you were sylvia then,
waist-deep in hair,
fogging up the belljar so that i couldn't see you clearly from outside.
i must have been sexton, too,
my cigarette waving frantically in the air as you watched me
from behind your white-steamed glass cavern,
my silent mouth screaming,
moving around vowels and syllables and expletives
that you didn't need to hear
to know
what it was i was saying.
i can still see you, warmed from the oven heat
laughing with your empty cups,
and motioning for me to come inside
where we could wait patiently
in eachother's company
for the fever to subside
or
at least-
share a final glass of whiskey
while we sit
and laugh
in the blaze of it all.