lazarus
Blue Crack Supplier
another woman stuck, this time yearning for freedom. inspired by two puns from one name. the author gives this one a happier ending, perhaps.
NANTUCKET
Nan, tuck it under
the tail end of all you hold dear
in the headlights you're frozen--
get out of the road
and pretend you're supposin';
no one will stop for dried mascara tears
and a duffel of frames with yesterday's names
remember the lint in your corner pocket
a note you jotted then forgotted
to do away with providence
and let the compass shatter on the asphalt
so whose map are you following now?
which misdirections led you to this town
hall of mirrors says you're out of shape;
run to the next one and you'll work it off,
pearldiving for sweetened saucereyes
and willful silverware;
it's a job you'd hold
like a wetwicked lantern
to stay in the rays of some Sunday parade
feathers in her hair--
sinceremonial headdress
from retroactive revelry
as she watches the dance
of Augustine agers,
a rarer fairer breed
slave to their functions and luncheons
one day she'll rub
soapspots off the glassware
and peer out this white picket thicket
to the bright grey world beyond,
faced with the climax
of a Casablanca standoff:
torn between the thing she loves
and what she most admires
Nan, see boys breaking through
a birth sac of Caribbean blue
to frolic on the sand with sunmaids
tanned and free of contentment;
go to them dropping your apron behind,
all smiles and polka-dotted,
the stamps on your suitcases
peeled off and mailed to the past.
laz
NANTUCKET
Nan, tuck it under
the tail end of all you hold dear
in the headlights you're frozen--
get out of the road
and pretend you're supposin';
no one will stop for dried mascara tears
and a duffel of frames with yesterday's names
remember the lint in your corner pocket
a note you jotted then forgotted
to do away with providence
and let the compass shatter on the asphalt
so whose map are you following now?
which misdirections led you to this town
hall of mirrors says you're out of shape;
run to the next one and you'll work it off,
pearldiving for sweetened saucereyes
and willful silverware;
it's a job you'd hold
like a wetwicked lantern
to stay in the rays of some Sunday parade
feathers in her hair--
sinceremonial headdress
from retroactive revelry
as she watches the dance
of Augustine agers,
a rarer fairer breed
slave to their functions and luncheons
one day she'll rub
soapspots off the glassware
and peer out this white picket thicket
to the bright grey world beyond,
faced with the climax
of a Casablanca standoff:
torn between the thing she loves
and what she most admires
Nan, see boys breaking through
a birth sac of Caribbean blue
to frolic on the sand with sunmaids
tanned and free of contentment;
go to them dropping your apron behind,
all smiles and polka-dotted,
the stamps on your suitcases
peeled off and mailed to the past.
laz
