Embodiment
She is a panhandler and responds as hobo in the same call.She is a junkie that will come
out and consume if the temptress is too close
as a man falling into a woman.
She is a bolder mother than bitch
and looks more covetously free
alone than flying half mast
by the side of a man.
She is everything worth telling about the 60's-
the shame in the late 70's-
and a pitied thing by the 90's.
She is dreamy
when she remembers
four weeks living in a tree house with a dog
and a lot of hash above Mt St Helen's devastating reverence
disturbed, a few feet above
it's rolling wrath, choosing all surrounding to scorch
and leaving her as fragile as a doll.
She is the middle of the woods that aren't familiar
and easily construed in remnants of shadow.
She is a property owner
that does nothing with her bent terrain,
nothing with her wondering dogs,
does nothing about her anger
except yell, does nothing
with her language but dirty it.
She is a simple mouse
content on crumbs, never cursing the heavens for more.
She is hard to follow
when she ignites the conversation;
she's a laughingstock with another
beer in hand and faithful beret crooked,
fitting in warmly as a drunk.
She is humility without the hunger of noise,
the jest of approval and crowns and rings
that want the glare of the sun.
She is a secret
with the answers lodged somewhere between
her eyes and mouth's manifestation.
She is the dream I surely know until I
express it. She is the thing I touch
but cannot press:
She hears these definitions and laughs.
Poetry by Christin Brennan
Read 1164 times
Written on 2011-01-20 at 17:23
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