Now the Fly’s in the Saucer

after Virginia Woolf, “The New Dress”

Breathe, breathe, you tell yourself. This paltry fear
Will pass, must pass, your frozen lungs fill up
With clean air, blessed air, the weak tea clear,
Its faint aroma rising from your cup,
The dawn rising as dimly as far sounds
Of songbirds in someone’s yard, the lawn man
Sprinkling crushed aspen leaves and coffee grounds
Among the pale nasturtiums. Love began
Somewhere about this natural setting, here,
And dreaming of it lets you catch your breath,
Now, as your lover casts a sullen leer.
Say, as others do, “There’s Shakespeare! There’s death!
We’re all weevils in a captain’s biscuit.”
No, no, too miserable, too much to risk it.

Mix and Match

I mix and match the colours when I paint.
The easel, splashed with messy overflows,
Displays my strengths, my weaknesses, the lows
And highs of my emotions. I feel faint,
I'm strong as iron, I'm a walking saint,
A crawling, wicked sinner come to blows
With destiny. For all anyone knows,
However, this is just a fool's complaint.

In fact, you all know who I really am:
The monster hiding underneath the bed,
The weaver of tall tales about the dead
(Let's sit upon the ground, my little lamb).
Happy or sad, who gives a good goddam?
So, do I wake or sleep? The music's fled.

My Metamorphosis

When she arrived, I met her at the door
And smiled a shy, timid pussycat smile.
The girl was feral now, not like before,
And happily declared me prey on trial.
"I'll mark you with my scent," she informed me
With a dark grin and blood on one sharp claw.
I breathed harshly, hoping she wouldn't see
My radical distress, but soon she saw.
I stood still, like a badly frightened deer,
Yet dreaming everything would turn out well.
"If we stay here, it will just happen here,"
She warned me. Maybe it would. Who could tell?
I said to her, "You'd better come upstairs."
We kissed, and made out like two grizzly bears.

Philosophic

She had a tubal, but worried the Bible
Warned against it. Will she still be able
To counterattack with a suit for libel
When they blamed her for the Tower of Babel?
She never really meant to be a rebel,
A feeble, sad excuse for the dark rubble,
Remains of her - what? heart? - small as a pebble.
She's had enough of living in a bubble,
Enough of all this philosophic babble,
Old professors looking for a nibble,
Running to escape the hobbling rabble
And their own weak chins covered in dribble.
Our foibles haunt us, never fine or noble;
Our end is certain, our dismay is global.