He wants to be her knight,
but she doesn’t need saving.
* * *
Boys before
kept her in tears,
kept her in chains.
Holes ripped
in the world
by their passion.
With you
she feels less
pain.
She feels
less.
Poetry through the Seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer
He wants to be her knight,
but she doesn’t need saving.
* * *
Boys before
kept her in tears,
kept her in chains.
Holes ripped
in the world
by their passion.
With you
she feels less
pain.
She feels
less.
The vampire princess asked him to join her
and he saw the light no more.
He was gentle once, before his soul was taken,
penning piles of pitiful sonnets filled with longing.
The dark girl found his gentleness charming,
but loved him even more when he was wicked.
So he was wicked.
Her perfect poet and provocateur
made powerful by blood and by love.
A century later, she abandoned him, and the heart
that ceased to beat the night she turned him
tore apart.
Only forbidden love began to mend
his heart’s tattered secrets. The Slayer.
A spirit so hot to the touch it burned him nightly.
She made him cry. She made him rage.
He was covered in her, consumed by her,
concerned for her.
He was in love and she wanted him dead.
He wanted to breathe her in, but he had no breath.
Here begins his journey to recover the soul
he lost so long ago. To give birth again to the poet within.
Cast out by false fathers
who profess love
but imprison creativity,
she finds herself in the company
of those she despises,
trying to hide her true face,
what’s bad inside her
legend told by fathers who seek
to keep their women weak.
The only weak woman
is the one
who doesn’t know herself.
Oh, tell me a story
of she who begins
unwanted and then is chosen.
Family.
Not those we are born to, but those who make us whole.
Not what tears us apart, but what ties us together.
A spark
they still call hatred,
but the scent of sweetness
hides underneath,
the perfect match of wit
and struggle.
He shoves.
She slaps.
He welcomes pain.
It feels like love.
Stinking, crazy,
hurtful love.
what if there was another me
who did it better
got it right the first time around
made the drunken parents proud
got accepted to all the best schools
on someone else’s dime
what if he exuded brilliance
stomped on mediocrity
what if everyone admired him
depended on him
he would be so handsome
with the cleanest hair
the darkest eyes
the cleverest of comebacks
wait, no one does clever comebacks
better than me
not even a better me
dawn is morning’s response
to evening’s darkness
* * *
I am an only child,
little sister I have not.
But the kid
appeared one day,
writing journals,
making a nuisance,
altering my life.
What is a life
if not what’s remembered?
Or is what’s remembered
the whole of a life?
Can missing pieces
form a sister,
like God in those first days
molding a planet from the void?
Can a sister form
from shared memories –
skinned knees,
birthday cakes,
the forbidden borrowing
of a favorite sweater?
If memories fail,
does the sister evaporate
like water on a summer sidewalk?
Or do lies fracture,
leaving a prism
of colorful stories behind?
Lying close,
he doesn’t satisfy.
Pursuit
feeds her hunger.
She chases thrills,
then returns spent
to lie beside him.
A kindred
flows like mist
into her room
while she is sleeping,
drinking her in.
Her true nature
is concealed
beneath crepe paper
and ribbons,
peeled back layers
of strength
and darkness.
His nature is
a colorful calligraphy,
flowing shallow
and powerful
beneath the skin.
He offers eternity.
She is rooted in now,
her thirst quenched
by ancient memories.
She, as predator.
She, as seduction.
She, as hunger.
He leaves her
as he found her,
wanting more.
1.
Ancient strokes
brushed
on naked skin,
entangled,
a poem without,
my love within.
In costume,
the play begins
without me.
False friends follow,
dragging me back
to the shell of a life.
O girl in blue,
won’t you tell me
what to do?
Paint me, naked,
hair behind one ear,
my Aphrodite.
2.
The journey leads me
back again,
swinging,
trying to get in.
Too many people
watching,
my father’s sin.
Ladies,
lovely like ice cream,
speak to me
in foreign tongues,
send me off to war.
I can’t take it
anymore.
Pulled apart by petals
and stems,
too many corridors,
I can’t get in.
No place to lose my heart.
I’m broken, torn apart.
3.
Time
is a carnival,
masking your face
with laughter,
cotton candy.
Find me
in a melody,
follow the lines.
No time
to remember
before,
on hands and knees.
You alone,
time lost.
And I
not born yet,
even as I die.
4.
The earth
is a dreamer,
hiding behind walls,
hands plunged deep
in dark desert mud,
its name
unknown to anyone.
Memories are
isolated,
all twisted in family.
Speech, so ancient
there are no words.
Strength lies
in friendship,
in purpose.
The way
looms clear.
Then dawn
arrives
and changes
everything.
In friendship
we speak as one,
speaking in an ancient tongue.
Bullets melt off our skin.
Many try,
but can’t get in.
Sticks and stones
and playground bones
can’t touch the power
of friendship.
Torn apart
by misunderstanding,
like birds we find
our landing, in solidarity.
Magical reunion,
our hearts seek communion.
We meet equidistant,
form a fellowship
from our dissent.
Four legs supply
a chair’s stability.
Four corners
of the world every
adventurer longs to see.
Four friends joined
as one, win all battles
under the sun.
She, the soul.
He, the wit,
She, the heart.
He, the intellect.
In friendship
we speak as one,
speaking in an ancient tongue.
Bullets melt off our skin.
Many try,
but can’t get in.
Sticks and stones
and playground bones
can’t touch the power
of friendship.