Thursday, July 19, 2012

Femme Fatale Poet

Femme Fatale Poet

“The roof of a coffin
Detached in the violence”
—Ted Hughes
“The Table”
Birthday Letters

It was your gift to me—
A solid writing table for poetry

Something that would last a lifetime—
A solid Elm plank two inches thick

Wild bark still snarling around edges—
Rough-cut coffin timber for a corpse

Sitting here tonight writing—
It’s a door opening into my grave

It’s a raft for a long-term voyage—
Over the drowned sailors of the dead

Smelling the North Tawton evening—
Calmly sipping another martini

I drink too much but it’s the only thing—
That keeps these words flowing

I sleep all day trying to forget—
Then I resurrect my Daddies at night

The cuckoo clock no longer ticks—
I killed the fuckin bird a long time ago

I sleepwalk through the house at night—
Blindfolded inside a looking glass

Court Green my stage without props—
A paltry script torn out of time

The peanut-crunchers lean in & stare—
Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?

After Ariel I started writing noir verse—
Big Sleep Raymond Chandler-esque

The Long Goodbye just kept going on—
I ended up the usual femme fatale

My desk is the roof of my coffin now—
I’m the Lady in the Lake under the dock

I washed up on this side of the Atlantic—
Just another Fulbright frightened girl

I ended up a has-been aging widow—
At least that’s what everybody thinks

Abandoned by my runaway husband—
Ditched by a no-good deadbeat daddy

The Queen makes me Poet Laureate—
Even bestows the Order of Merit to me

Secretly she knows the awful truth—
Murder, My Sweet our womanly secret

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