Queen for the Day of the Dead
(November 1st)
Gentle in
her bones
she walks,
Beauty
melted down to clean white sticks
that softly
click
and
clatter.
No hearts
flutters
within the
delicate curve of rib cage
and the
sweet smooth fans of hip
and pelvic
arch are empty;
bright eyes
lost
forever in the ivory skull’s infinite darkness,
a smile of
perfect, gleaming teeth
unmarred by
lips
or dimples
. . .
How
graceful the gestures
of brittle
finger bones
like
crocheted lace.
No more the
body’s
sorrowful
decay
blood and
flesh and sinew
seething
with Life’s colorful passions.
Now
essence,
the purest
and last
expression
of
mortality.
Gentle in
her bones
she walks.
Remembered Music
I recall
what a
delicate, sweetly-tuned instrument
was my
body...
How like a
well-strung lute
it did
respond to you,
And how
tenderly I welcomed
your hands
and lips upon me,
the dulcet
melodies you would play.
I recall
your gentle touch...
so
talented, so sure,
as together
we composed our songs.
Now there
is only silence.
My body
hums softly, sadly,
as the
strings of an abandoned harp
answer to
the wind.
Where has
our music gone?
What use a
lute, a harp, if no player
evokes its
lyric melodies?
Time is the
cruel master of all musical instruments.
The strings
molder, loosen;
the bright,
curved frame warps and dulls...
Ah, love,
if there are no more songs
to make
between us,
why do we
linger?
All
melodies played without true feeling
are marred
by awkward sharps and flats --
And
talented musicians
are few and
far between . . .
Sue Littleton has been writing for 50 years. Her experiences come from a sheep ranch in West
Texas to the sophisticated capital of Argentina, and from 18 years in Buenos
Aires to Austin,Texas. A college education is a wonderful thing. She graduated
at age 57. Her poetry returned to her with intense joy and a range unknown before the
mind-dazzling experiences of undergraduate studies.
Email: Sue Littleton
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