Dear editor,
Pasted below are the following poems I'm submitting for your consideration: "The Last Call," "K.N.S.," "Of Darwin and God," "Head," and "Plaid." I thought my work ma be of interest to you!
My poetry has appeared in many on line as well as print magazines, Faluja Press, Black Cat Press, The Sheltered Poet, just to name a few. They were printed under my birth name, Denis LeCavalier. I now legally have the name of Abigale Louise LeCavalier, and have now been published in The Same.
Thank you for your consideration. I look forward to hearing from you.
Abigale Louise LeCavalier
Three
I had been lying here
for three days
before they found me,
all sticky and sweet.
I had in my right hand
a fist,
and a clump of his hair
in the other.
But I couldn’t do much
about the knife
sticking out
of my neck.
It seems he cut me
to the bone,
in more ways
than one.
And I could swear
I heard the coroner giggle,
when he peeked
under my skirt.
As if it were
a secret,
or something?
In the end
I didn’t feel bad
about the situation I was In,
just a little embarrassed,
because my hair slipped off
when they lifted me
from the floor.
The floor I cleaned,
three days ago.
Left Hook
I can sit here for days,
tapping my foot
to the music
pouring from the radio.
Fix my hair,
paint my nails,
and freshen my makeup.
The things in my life
that make me happy.
Then Squeeze into
something slinky,
and pump up the volume.
And the guys downstairs
wont complain,
I think there a little
Scared.
Of me?
Most defiantly!
Because I can be
the biggest bitch
on the block.
And I have a mean
left hook!
Zippo
She lights a cigarette
with the Zippo her
father gave her,
the only thing
from his house
she was allowed to retrieve.
A bottle full of black market estrogen
rattles
with every step she takes,
no room left
in her had-me-down purse.
For things like money,
or a paycheck.
And the smoke rings
she blows
frame the world in imperfect circles,
as she squints down the street
through her dime store sunglasses.
Yet she feels powerful.
Because she knows
she wiggles when she walks.
And it’s not her fault.
She is just
a young girl,
who happens to pee
standing up.
805
Watershed moments
while sitting in traffic,
the girl two cars up
is texting while she waits.
The smoke from my cigarette
circulates,
with the tide
of the air conditioner,
it makes for an interesting smell.
But I’m use to that,
the smell anyway.
And the ice cream cake
I bought,
is melting into the back seat.
“Oh that’s funny!”
I whisper to myself.
As we inch
our way up the 805.
Wondering how the children
will react,
not about the treat,
but the skirt I chose to wear.
It’s black.
And I feel like I’m on my way
to a funeral,
I kind of am.
I can only imagine
what the priest is going to say,
as my boys
cling to their mom.
I wonder if I’ll
be able to hear what’s being said,
so I know where I’ll be heading
in the end.
“oh that’s funny!”
And we inch forward
on the 805.
Bad Faith
Sometimes I wish
that the breath
would leave,
my body.
Surrounded by
quiet contemplation,
I have discovered
trepidation;
wilting,
in the palms
of my hands.
And as the wind
ruffles my skirt,
I squint,
through cheap
sunglasses,
at my reflection
in a dirty birdbath.
Smiling,
at the burning end
of my cigarette.
Living
by no choice,
of my own.
Yet taking the steps
to ready the page,
asking questions
and not wanting
the answers,
I was born
in a pond upstream.
Fighting;
a representation
of bad faith.
Wastewater
Sweetwater moments,
never shedding tears
down the drainpipe
of a rundown life.
Walking quietly
in 6 inch stilettos,
borrowing an idea
or a dollar bill.
Talking out of turn
on the carousel,
looking for the brass rings
but only finding holes.
It’s all understandable
or realistically shameful;
I always have
one foot on the gas.
And the other out the front door.
An idea stolen
from the torn pages
of an old coloring book.
And it only runs as deep
as bourbon in glass.
Belonging;
the shadows
of a shallow life.
