writing

Great Expectations

“Chicka boom-boom,”
that’s what the old lady said
like an opening chant in Santeria,
bringing on the spirit of love/lust/desire in a man
with the sharpened hopes of seeing it all destroyed.
This is when you train a female to know
her supposed enemy, and assure her
to tear it down
is to win.

Masochistic Feminism.
No earth root sky there.
No Goddess bellies, no blood, no bread.
No offering of breast milk, no black honey.
No power in defeat.
No love in war.

It is what it is when you raise a girl,
for some, there is the other way,
like frosting a cake.
And you can add almondine
or strychnine to the batter
or you can leave her sproingy vanilla flesh
unfettered,
so the sweet perfume can find its way out.
Let her choose her own dressings.
Let her layer on what she will.

Not all of us are sweet.
Not all of us wear frosting.

Which brings me to ….
the old theme of neurotics in the suburban housewife.
went to see it once briefly. . . curiosity and the cat
and all that.
i have swum in those hip waders before
as did my mother before me.
Some of us choose the ironing board as our prayer altar.
Some of us get wise,
we devour the books and we breathe deep the intellectual stench.
and we are never the same.
we learn to accept our minor defeats
and escape our major trappings.
sometimes we gnaw off a few layers of skin
in order to run wild through the forest,
. . . but it grows back.

And some even say that this same tenderness
enables you to feel the next love to a greater extent.
if your flesh is open, you may certainly feel the warm breath of a lover
more distinctly at your shoulder.

Which brings me to you ….

i know this place in your life now,
i am no less or greater traveled than you
but i know this place . . .

darling, i wish so many things for you:
do know:
that i need your gorgeous inspirit dialogue so profoundly,
that yes, whatever body love chooses to live in,
whatever guise she chooses to wear,
whatever she means when she rises up
like nectar from the heart
and trickles from the mouth,
it is what it is when i say that i love you so fiercely
and always want to know where your growing pains are.
– i hope that this remoteness brings you your desired focus
or unfocus …
whatever it is you need this time to bring about the change.
– and this last wish has a bit for me too as we are always selfish
when it comes to magic genies,
— that when the change comes

i am still in there somewhere.

~ Andrea E. Janda

writing

spring dreaming

she’s leaving in the dark
but she knows that it’s morning
those earliest quicksilver hours move with
the first chatter of birdsong
the whisper of lawn sprinklers
the soft rumble of bakery trucks.

she peels herself from the length
of his body,
the indentation where she fits
carved in his side
the nite before
last Sunday
a month ago
the day he was born
a life previous.

on the roadway
lit now by the wash
of a dull, pewtered sun
amber-orange street lights fizzle
wink out like paper lanterns
and the black-blue bird
eyes her from the powerline.

she regards her watcher
with a knowing smile
for he is messenger and muse
promising dreams
the return of Spring
the length of a lover
and the indentation
to be reborn from
every morning
a blood-red sunrise
in a milk-white sky

~ Andrea E. Janda