| b e
t s y f a
g i n
|from poison disguised:
first :: madnesses
9. my anchor life. to glorious highs
reach this human germ only to return
remaining decorated, ornamental. without
force. that forest reads of scandal. it is burning
impatiently, it does not rest. daring the world
from depths always leaving that bright crystal
into which speechifying eases each to its demise.
<<I think that tree was trying to tell me
something. I ::know:: that bird was.>>
10. morning quest against madness
to give her that day. the brunt of location
crossed her name. honor of surplus.
but dressed like a goon. content to honor the world
by eating cheeses, neufchatel giving face to faith
columns, colonized & with constant invitations
underground to eat, like at the abbey (of handmade
bread, thick and hot) thanks be to the lover.
an infraction against dishonor & the river.
11. juggling beats that serve the oppressor
whose due, glorious tyranny,
of love is yes, well-taken.
that which frees to remain not flying
but ravenous at the core.
& so much begging, piety, returns
intolerance with indiscretion. wrongful
misery, it will be returned to you, over your
fencing to give legs to your laughter.
12. contest the disfigurement of the beautiful
forgotten castle, dry
because of a short if decorous,
and beautiful life.
the fortress was poorly made.
the being died. (fame & not force
saw its fallacy felled)
that bird always cooing. the beautiful
countryside & that allowable uniqueness.
13. dead ivy covered the prattling amenities
crossed the river a-mornings
& flowed to kneel near villainous banks
that break over it cursing.
it was ok–
whatever the lack of serenity–
when prayers were miserly, ingratiating
fatal from delusion of no sleep,
ragged the richness of our native line.
14. which is that not saddled with a weekend mind
of gold medium, languishing in effulgence?
this costs, is a form of adventure.
the seductress grows in strength
her talons fraught with vengeance yes,
richly she is adorned. gives this honored fortune
to someone less petty, fearful ready to be a star.
that’s a superb suggestion. right there,
the swan, she falls.
from bridges are targets:
who doesn’t feel comfortable
in this world, staring
as though bound, set upon
shoe leather for company.
lifting off the sky for the ground
set next to a complication
of overlapping polyester threads
for lace well worn,
soul of the earth the folded
shone the worn shades
the patent shine
reflective patterns scuffed
in this made-cheaply world
designed in grids, arches
laced up tongues
against stars’ movement.
what proof of this?
a forward charge?
is bliss followed
is all-of-us mind
a collective upheaval?
is our together purpose
is coin to represent earth
& the all together crying out?
we all make the best decisions.
look at evidence collected like honey
from various combs–clover, alfalfa–
telling of reflected hives draped in diamond
cast facets of a grandmothers’ jewels
who lost her hand & gave the ring to me
who made wooden teeth
for my receding gumline.
is the water gift
that blinds us all free.
now the time then for magic
universe, desire-world of fantasy
conviviality covered cough.
what use this pillowed head.
fishing for stirred up empty space
through fog covered heads-– newspapered
shoulders drown. the woman possessed
is as the flower turned to the sun
her life follows, is fragrant & following.
cut & dried. stalk still stuck
on the bridge junction blazing the remembrance
of beach past, of pitcher white sand, of sea.
rinsing off the salt floating, quenched from hot.
BETSY FAGIN's poems appear in a number of literary journals including Five Fingers Review, Fence, Skanky Possum, So to Speak, Torch, Van Gogh’s Ear and The World Among Others. She is the author of For Every Solution There is a Problem (Open24 Hours, 2003). Some of her work can be found online at: canwehaveourballback?, The East Village Poetry Web: The Poetry Project Website: & Poets Against the War: