Together

I always knew we'd stay together.

Banging against one another like wind chimes

that have no choice but

to cry out whenever even the faintest of gusts

throws them together.

We were bound as one,

unable to let the winds carry us away.

Always yanked back when the strings that held us grew taut.

In the nights, after dinner,

I'd sit on the veranda staring into the endless horizon of long grasses and starry nights,

knowing this was not the life I had fantasized about in the heart of my youth.

Strangely, I am one of those who they say followed his heart, diving headfirst after a life I knew nothing about.

A crazy fool that built a true life

from a mere impression of generations that came before him.

I worked hard and earned the right to sit outside,

alone on summer nights.

I can hear them through the screen door,

laughing and yelling,

pounding their feet against the floor.

These are the children you bore for me,

in your mind knowing they would keep me happy,

in your heart knowing they would keep me here, never straying.

I am the farm man, strong and weathered.

I live like those before me did on this stretch of farmland feeding all with the spoils of hard work and clean soil.

Or at least I'd like to think I do.

I wanted this for myself, I did.

And now I want to leave. To run and leap over the ground I've spent all of my days.

I should be proud, but really, it was the love of chasing something I thought I could never have that has kept me here all these years.

I have reached my destination, safe

without a scratch.

I am brought here, sat down, and told: This is it!

You have come to journey’s end!

I don a smile but look around,

Ever hoping for another fork, another bend.

But the path is straight and set before me, by me.

My children can laugh, play, grow

and journey on down the road I have paved before them.

They can pave what I have not. Diverging from the path, my path.

And then when they are gone

it will be you and I staring at each other in the silence,

everything to say already said.

Can I leave you then?

Then, when the strings are worn thin.

Can I leave the life I made for you and I, never knowing if this was what you wanted too?

Can I leave you here in an empty house?

On the land I tilled and for the dream I wanted.

Would you stay here with your eyes downcast,

bearing the burden of a reckless husband?

Who had no heart and no soul left to stay by his faithful wife.

These are the darkest of my days.

The trap I sprang for myself has sunk its teeth into my flesh.

No amount of wriggling and jiggling can release me from this boredom.

The string of the wind chime that held me so securely with its gentle tugging and musical clanging

has turned into the solid grip of woven noose and the steady rhythm of an ominous gong

counting down the end of my days.

I sense a freedom waiting for me just beyond this last stretch.

My departure now brings the burden of death upon your shoulders.

I cannot be blamed. They won't say I left you,

but that I've simply traveled to a better place,

ahead of you for now.

They say I will be waiting for you by pearly gates,

waving you into the afterlife

where we will spend an eternity together

and you cling to this.

But I won't, I've made my plans.

I'll strike a deal with the bearded man.

A good husband, a good father and all around a wonderful man.

He'll see that I was faithful.

That I ignored the pull of temptation.

And for all these things I've done for you.

He'll see that I spend my eternity away from you.

Veena Ambikapathy

“Trapped”

Trapped like an animal in a cage,
So many motions building up in a rage!
I look out the window life passes me by,
In this empty room I sit and cry.
Feeling so different from others,
Sometimes I just want to smother.
Trying to fit into life so many times,
My heart and soul is in a bind.
Doctors, hospitals do all they can,
I feel as if the world has me banned.
Often wishing for God to take me home,
I know this is wrong so I continue to roam.
Why am I broken? I do not understand,
People try to help with praying of their hands.
My body and mind feels bound with rope,
This gives me fear without any hope.
Too many people have hurt me so much,
I live my life in a hopeless crunch.
It’s so lonely being here alone,
Sometimes I get a call on the phone.
My mood changes from day to day,
I want to be well I pray and pray.

“The Little Girl”

The little girl always huddled in the corner,
Biting her nails down to the bone!
He would show up from work to home.
The first time she was thrown into the lake,
Thank God her brother dove in for her sake!
She also recalls being locked behind cellar doors,
Screaming and crying to get out to no avail!
The cellar was damp with a terrifying smell.
She must have fallen asleep in fright!
She must have stayed there into the night.
It’s all so strange to her this very day,
She really can’t recall ever getting out,
Wonders if the little girl is still there some way?

Linda Hunter

Web

Her web binds him in tight,
winds him close with sticky
need. He wonders how it
doesn’t stick to The Other One.

He rolls in closer, closer,
pulling himself in tighter still,
comforted by the ties to her,
drinking her tears for The Other One.

He tries to curl round the
quivering shell of her ache.
Always she is weaving, spinning,
always towards The Other One.

Nearer and nearer she edges,
dragging him, used, in her wake,
‘cause he knows she can trust him
much more than The Other One,

who doesn’t want her twisting
and twining, doesn’t see the art
she sacrifices. It chokes him,
her wasting it on The Other One.

He clings unwanted in the tangling
ropes – cruelly she keeps him
hanging. She could always have him.
She couldn’t have The Other One.

Soon she will be weakened, tired,
while he lies rested in her silken bed.
Soon she will be worn out, needy again.
He will lay her down with him, loving
her best vulnerable and wrecked like this,
wrapping her up, binding her tight,
sickly and close. Tied in the soft sleek strands.
Tied in her life’s work.


The Peripheral Girl

I am the peripheral girl. I am wedged
in at the edge of the photo where you
can’t see much of me. That’s my elbow,
there’s my ear. So quiet you’d never know

I was there. Do you even know if I was?
Do you think I care if you notice me?
(Notice me, somebody… Yeah, right.)
I am the girl with no face to remember

me by. No clever words snagging you.
I skulk and smirk, lurk behind curtains
of hair. I know the truths no one hears.
My voice is silent, my smile lies unused.

I bruise you, just gently, choosing sly
and sparingly. No obvious places, no
graceless soul-baring. I don’t do caring,
sharing. Never so you’d know. My power

is stealth. I am still the peripheral girl, the
fuzzy shape caught in the corner of your
eye. The name you always forget, the one
you can’t get your head round. The whisper
of gone.

Effigy

He made an effigy.
He made it for her,
picking all the things he
thought she would like.
It would be his gift.

He made an effigy,
using his own body
as carrier. Using his own
mind as template – selecting
the good thoughts he knew
would snare her. Cutting
out the ones gone bad.
She would never know.
He would draw her

a new love, an artist’s
impression. A pastiche
of her ideal man.
Holding it together

with blue-tack, tobacco
and home-grown denial.

He made an effigy,
built it with his own
hands, sticky with insecurity.
He studied her, watched her,
tweaked and perfected,
‘til he was sure this was
exactly what she would want.

It was ready. Finished.
A complete thing.

He gave her the effigy.
He said she could have it,
this body, this mind, this
beautiful boy, built for her
pleasure alone. And lots of
pleasure alone, he hoped.

He gave her the effigy.
She was amazed.
She put her arms around it.
She opened her heart, her legs.
She didn’t understand
that it wasn’t real.

Prick

Smothered in the sticky
splatter of the words
he spat all over her.

Trapped balloon deflating, she is
sealed within a wet papier-mâché
casing of his gobbed out dirt.
Inside, her every tender bit nicked
and pricked by the knife tips

of what he said.
The razored edges sliding,
slicing out from his lips,
sneers to steal and slash her
every suck of sorry breath,
each keening lung to puncture,
each hope and fall of chest.
Chafing inner elbows, knees,
thighs, breasts’ undersides.
Undecided

in his intention,
his words are still gummed
bitter with salivary glue.
His viscous fluids
acidic and thickening,
slickening her skin to
easy cuts, bleeds and infection.
Picking and prickling, rashes,
flicked splashes, allergy and
rejection. Weeping, weighted

down, sedated heavy with his trodden
in sodden gunk, deep down, under
layers of his mouth’s accusatory
verbal vomit, he could slyly
shoot home, this syringed-up
concentrated bile he’s stored up
for her and her alone. Finally
decisive. Always derisive.
He could…

One. More. Little. Prick…


Coming Death?

Big Tarantino fan.
And all the Saw films.
And anything with…
well, you know,

all that stuff. Torture.
The guts and gore.
He complains these days
movies have gone soft.
That there’s not enough
violence against women.
He must understand irony,

‘cause he’s clever and
educated and
he holds doors and
pulls out chairs and
helps her into her coat.
No reason why
she shouldn’t
go back with him. He
helps her out of it too.

But… it’s hard…

Hard to feel turned on
fucking under a poster of
Reservoir Dogs.
American Psycho
smirking to the side.

There are others,
ones she doesn’t know.
Blood-dipped knife-blades
dripping over open-mouthed
girlies, eyes wide and
thighs gaping.

Death or coming.
Coming death.

She thinks perhaps she’s
not bright enough to
get it – the art he admires.
Is it satire? Social comment?
She doesn’t want to
seem a prude,
so mostly
she just shuts her eyes.

Hollyanne