Mercy

Answer me

Please

Climb out of impossible and

Dipping quill, write backwards in time

Angling mirrors to lipread

Da Vinci’s reflected scrawl

tell us the unravel to the mystery

Where in this hour should we go?

When they let you down slow

Removing fantasy, layer by layer

Are you there?

On the emptied pier, bare of hope

Dour endings posted like nails in my palm

Is that you? Cresting wave in falling darkness

Light, just a slip of a girl spilling over her dress

It is cream and carries each stain like a mast

Are you there?

Crunching underfoot, doubt that goodness is lost

For you, with your thin shadow, still manage to

Fill me with light

A radiant being, rarefied

How often to find, one whose mission isn’t self

But the betterment of others

You, who don’t even know your worth

If you did, you would hiccup and grow embarrassed

It is not your need to be praised, you are a child of mercy

Your pleasure is in lending kindness, to mend the scold

For this world can be so lonely, and you

Are a house to come in from, settling cold.

 

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Lovely poison

Do not turn away

Face the sun

The ocotillo stubborn in red dirt

Little life thriving with thinest whisker

As quickly we live we could die

Hands raised in half a circle

Did you shed a tear?

Did you turn and witness

The laced saguaro backward stumble

On our knees we become monument valley

Faces entombed in last expression

Catch it

The very first sign in the sky

Reflection of our secret self

Mirage honoring snaking road

Capsum fingers threading cloud

You squint

Blind against searching heat

Sparce

An ocean missing water

Once your base was festooned

A festival of lights and flowers

And creatures swam in unfocused formation

The stain of your wet feet now dry

Surely all the days of your life

You will thirst to return

To this day of land beneath water

Where blooming softly, a silent swell

Is gentle reminder

Of where we came from

Contained in jeweled fossil

Smooth in moonstruck hour

Curling opposite sides of one another

Listen carefully, hear the tred, shod in fur

Leaving footsteps, follow into magic mountain

There you mount, emptying your secrets into me, one thrust after another

Such is memory, opening a door as if

No time at all has passed

There we are, glistening beneath jellied future

I wear an amber necklace, you remark it compliments my capture

With my fingers, my cat eyes and I, scratch a place where you left the first imprint

As deep as viper, seeking prey, will bite

You are my lovely poison

And I

The hawk overhead

Sighting from high

Blur (collaborative poem w/Tre Loadholt)

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Echoes of pierced hearts
Taunting evil deeds
Motherless child from a
Damaged womb

Breathless before God
And his followers
Atonement expires
Heat drenches a soaked soul

A sparrow breaks his wing
Black ash falls from the sky
Voodooed and seanced
A blur, a speck no one sees
Or knows

If you moved from colored bruise beneath silken pour of sleeplessness

Supple backed, dewy salt, two thrust on tiptoe, catching breath

Shards blending, fizzured pulse, ever and ever, tongued capture

Flush against humid glass, hold–pressing fierce crimson, disturbing numinous hour of sewing

Children with boiled seaside sweets, deep in their catkin singing mouths, dream of a dark cast–shrouding

Morning’s nectered promise, fed gobfuls of glib adult reassurance
insubstantial as fluttered dancers heart

Yet as I quit–the hingeless drug

Your smudged anger envelops, the stray chill of my shoulder

As a bandage will hold us, burned into place.

Until moths pick their way from water-painted cocoon

Feeling their way in inked shiver, milked squid, gesturing tresses

Your long goose neck–bent to catch, last wetting of ground

For rain begins her throbbed drumming, swelling in granite intensity

And I, shake my lethargy off
Pack pain in her paisley ring box

Tasting cyanide and fruit

In the orange peel of day

Chasing last whisper

Of her quiet running horror.

 

Collaborative poem by Tre Loadholt & Candice Daquin

Inspiration: Sylvia Plath’s “Ariel” https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/49001/ariel

Artwork: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/328410997808168523/

Tre Loadholt: https://acorneredgurl.com and https://medium.com/a-cornered-gurl

Candice Daquin: https://thefeatheredsleepcom.wordpress.com/

When we are supposed to laugh

She runs her hands along the grain, movement a stain

hearing rust loosen and turn to red and green exquisitely

grief lies her head slower in time

perhaps given enough, doors opening to learn

why she holds her hand over her mouth so long

as her sisters, once younger and afraid, nesting behind her skirts

flew from their hinged cages, they had less fear than she

though in truth it is not fear that stays her hand

but a lament she was born with, hearing in her crib, the press of tragedy

Like some will carry lanterns, light darkest paths, for others to step towards

as her sisters learn to speak new language and grow like hungry ivy

she feels the pit of her stomach open and a seedling sprout from within

it hurts so much to grow internally, like a miscarriage refusing to leave

she holds on to every moment as thick rope will choke, if you let it

she must drive it out of her

but how to divorce the parts necessary for survival? Retain a whole?

from those who seek to devour

as light will find a way into a closed off room

distinction slowly lost, leaving shadows to dance on clean tile

the smell of another day, unsure, it is about all time before, come to now

see her lying still, as untouched water in glassy gloom

how she wished to follow their burning quilled footsteps

higher into turquoise forest where even now, laughter can be heard

below surface where nothing stirs, but slow tread of one who is neither alive nor perished

but fragment awaiting its missing part

she thought so often it was you, and then her empty hands

demonstrate

the futility of wishing

for we are free only when, we claim nothing but the words growing in our gut

urging us to cry when we are supposed to laugh

How many women does it take?

It was raining the day the movers truck pulled up

piling furniture into the back, exposed to wet streets

everything dirty and unfamiliar

when you take your safety out of its box

when you unlatch your secrets

and expose the insides of a locket

sticky mouths seek to further that exposure

until nothing of your peace remains

but the belly of your secrets on display

as if you were sitting in class without underwear

as if the abuse etched in your soul were a t-shirt

as if his fingers weren’t in the dark but had been

dipped in luminescent paint and everywhere they went

left their grimy imprint / yet you think

this horror may have been the very best thing

as wretched as exposure may taste

at least it wouldn’t be a case of disbelief

how many women does it take?

for one person to not hesitate

how many must say;

he did this / that happened / we are not okay

because of this / why do I have to prove / with gore

and soiled soul / the truth / why isn’t it sufficient that I say

why why why

did he lay a hand on me?

how many women does it take?

a juror in the Bill Cosby case disclosed the reason for his guilty verdict;

I believed he was guilty because he said he had drugged girls

hearing it from the horses mouth got my vote

are we bidding on a horse? Did you check the inside of his mouth?

what of the SIXTY women who spoke?

their voices do not warrant proof?

were people just speaking words?

to deaf sign posts stating;

move on / get over it / don’t make a fuss / why should we believe you?

one person has lied before / you must be lying / that’s our automatic default

what hope then

for one girl?

one single soul

violated in the dark

of a house when all is moved out

and she is left inside a shell, within a shell

the echoes of trucks taking memories

somewhere else

how many women does it take?

to be heard.

Family photo

Draw a line in sand

She’s the border of one side and the other

At times unteathered

Without prediction

There’s a mystique to change if it’s bidden

And if not …

Galloping down flights of stairs in Wellington boots

Doors unlatched, bodies surge toward the wild

Leaving behind tables of cups and saucers

A black current stain on her dress, she didn’t

Care what others thought

Letting little boys see her private parts, beneath the weeping willow

Hers was the reaction

A swinging, uncovered, naked lightbulb

Denied its right to be switched off, to sleep without searching hand

She learned, the way of obedience, had a sharp taste in her throat

Better climb out, scale the walls, tear your hands than

Be mounted with his collection on a pinkering wall

To dessicate and lose color, for each pulse of his filthy yen

A gamble necessary to quit and never look back

Running on bare feet with feathers in her mouth

If she left the earth would she sink or float?

Going over the edge, empty-handed and savage

Yet .. children survive

Incomplete and clean of doubt

Their enemy known, in the family photo

The road

At first the road seemed seemed impassable

Such a long distance with no sighted end

90 pounds was

A hollow eyed effigy, struggling not to drown

100 pounds was

A sickened mouth, forcing itself to swallow and chew

110 pounds was

A hunger to gain lost appetite, swill of food laying heavy with each urged step

120 pounds growing muscle

Punching the fuck out of weakness and despair

125 the goal, she fought, her joints bloody and plastered together

When she arrived, her body, her mind, her vibrating soul, she stood and cried

At the distance she’d travelled, cracked knuckles captured in dried clay

Stretching like bad memories, bleached by unrelenting sun

In spite of this, still, a flower is able to bloom