MAGINOT DE MAGGOT LINE
Expressive, a noise so loud,
rapping on glass, the insides
tapping ferociously to get out,
to leap out of the void,
and pierce my eyelids,
such noise as a cacophony of
songbirds yet muffled by a space-age
plastic that allows movement,
only when I blink.
As I delve into the interior I see
the fire,
the burning deep flame that hides
behind the eyes at rest yet can burst
forth at any sudden rush of ire,
angst or elegant surprise.
Looking into the skin the warmth
burns my soul and sets
my fingertips to twitching.
Far off a voice is calling, pulling
me back to my seat as I refuse to
pay witness to the parade shuffling
past.
I see and feel secrets as though they
demand to be opened,
like unwrapping a present as a child
spoiling the bow makes little difference
before the secret is discovered.
Turning away to see if the spark
disappears proves nothing,
the spell has been set and
six pieces become one again.
But the spark still burns,
thoughts recede,
such a small memory, as a child,
stealing small sips of Kirsch from
our father and thinking I had fooled
him,
feeling the burn and wondering how and
why something could feel so good
and so bad.
Desire to covet is soon
replaced by an imagination of
wonder, of sheer elegance,
harder than steel,
but so dangerously feminine.
The image is so strong,
and the perfume is powerful,
like musk being boiled with
a soldering iron,
blue daffodils spread on the grass,
bare feet trampling them only to
have them crushed and then bloom
again once more.
The etching has gone very deep
able to enter my mind at whim,
I pause and shiver,
why am I so weak?
MCC
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