Posts Tagged ‘302poetry’

A Self-Reflection

Wednesday, April 20th, 2011

1
Two lives are missing from the tree
Two hanging participles, unfinished phrases
Two Dark Ages, voids in my family history

2
In a college cafe, I sit across a speckled plastic table
From a girl who wants to be my friend, great blonde hair
Like a cloud had settled upon her head
Desperation races through my veins, my hands
Kept beneath the table to hide white knuckles
I want to be a friend, too, but I fade out
Of focus.  That’s all I can remember.

3
Four years are missing from my head
Four indefinite chapters in my biography

4
The plastic porch chair is sticky hot
Against what skin has been exposed
To a sun growing hazy and dim in my sight
North Carolina heat speeds the drowsiness, speeds
The tires on their way, rushing to meet me
And unfurl a white bed and waiting hands
That finish my parent’s sentences
I’ve been waiting for that conclusion.

5
One history rolls through my veins
Three names have been scrubbed by an eraser
One name remained.

— Leighanne Ellis

Diving In Cenotes

Thursday, April 14th, 2011

In Mexico, an old cenote marks
The death of dinosaurs, where rocks from space
Began an icy age.  I visited the place
In younger days, beheld a pool opaque.

I dove beneath its tranquil, ancient skin,
A trespasser, pursuing pooling depths.
Although I held my breath and wished for fins,
The fathoms ensured its secrets were kept.

In you, I met my own cenote, wide
Across, but knew the sorry shallow banks
Of my heart.  Without a doubt I would provide
You disappointment, sadness.  It was a mistake:

I reached for sand, and found the well was deep.
This lake is endless, bountiful, replete.

By:  Leighanne Ellis

Through Inferno To Do A Husband’s Duty

Thursday, March 24th, 2011

She had been a bitch the day before she died.
A frothing, cloven-hooved cunt the like of which
Every modern man has seen his wife transform
Into at some point in their marriage.

She wasn’t even on the rag;
Her blood was elsewhere, and boiling.

The trash couldn’t be disposed fast enough;
The sheep wasn’t slaughtered in time for her to cook it right;
I couldn’t dry the dishes before her tongue struck.

So maybe after we sent the kids to bed,
I called her a few choice words,
And I might have slept on the couch.
But all marriages go through such things.

The next day, you say you’re sorry
Work on that fourth baby, and put what’s
Past behind you.

That morning, as the chicken’s squawking woke me,
I stumbled, feet slapping the chilly wood flooring, to our bedroom.
The four-poster creaked, the feather mattress lumped,
Only to find your nipples, darling, cold to my touch,
Your mouth open, but not with snores,
The dark brush between your legs dry as the fire’s ashes.

Oh, Beatrice.  I regret what I said,
And I had known you were a spiteful woman,
But forcing me to walk through Hell
To apologize when you knew I would be sorry,
It was a little much, even for you.

By:  Leighanne Ellis

An Old Typwriter

Friday, March 18th, 2011

My father wrote letters on an old typewriter

That he didn’t keep. I found them,

Straining in the confines of

An open-mouthed baggie,

And wondered who had kept them.

Unfolded delicately, because they were like

Finding autumn leaves in a winter landscape,

Their stories were different

From the ones he told my siblings and me.

His crush was not my mother.

It was some girl named Cindy, or Sandy,

With long amber hair, in an age

When his hair wasn’t white.

Honestly I don’t remember the name of that woman,

(And probably, neither does he)

Nor what color hair she might have had.

I know just the shock of a Kim’s lack, and

Surprise at the youth my old man

Experienced.

My letters are in the ether,

But my diaries are of this world,

And I wonder if my children will be shocked

To learn of a vivid, youngster’s life before them,

Before their father, when my eyes were wide

With endless possibilities for lovers and dreams.


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