Bio Note: Born and raised in Coney Island, I'm a Coney Island patriot. And squash racquets fanatic. My headstone is to read, "One More Game?" Recent books include: Collected Poems 1954-2004 Schocken Books 2004, and Usable Truths: Aphorisms & Observations, Waywiser Press 2019. My readings of some of my poems can be found HERE.
Dance in the Dark
Circles, doubles back, circles, knocks again. Can't believe it: this she means, actually means to fight him for this body she has, unfairly, the advantage of inhabiting. And so ungrateful for the use of it he's granted her — and pretty much rent-free! Still, he's willing to share — take turns, say. And it's not as if she's got to be in whenever he comes around calling. She can just go somewhere for a while, have herself a nice, little vacation from standing guard behind those hazel? eyes. Oh, and yes, of course, he'll straighten up after. Place will look more or less like new, really! Bet she wouldn't even know he's been there. Mean no harm. Tell her that. Whatever it takes. Maybe blow some bucks. Help her see it this way. He's stymied? And she? She's perplexed, suspecting, sensing he's not himself to himself those times he fails to hold the world out of reach. And tempting, teasing, pleasing flower, fruit, or jewel he may let drop her way (by inadvertence? from slyness?) is paste to him and waste and shade should fingertip, or lip, so much as graze the glow. Then what's she worth to him — always after her — if, accursed, she makes his best goods worthless? Small, perfect, pure the bauble was, droplet of all loveliness — and bait that dispossessed her: tricked out the door to tremble in his cold, while he in his comfort and almighty glory sits in the window watching her punishment — oh, punished because to blame for the comeliness of heart in which she adorns her person! Trapped inside, trapped outside, she circles, circles, and doubles back. Knocks. Knocks again.
©2022 Irving Feldman
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