Stirred, Not Shaken
She Stirs
She stirs her glass of ethics with a red fingernail.
"No good can come of this" she says, ignoring
herself while her olive listens intently.
There are choices to make.
She looks in the mirror and opens her compact.
Her fear lies there, whispering sweetly to her.
"You deserve this" "You are tired"
She longs to be excused in weakness to choose
that which hurts her again and again.
She crouches, steeled on the haunches of her
own becoming. Unknowing of how far her choosing
could fling her from all she wants. Rejecting
that there is no becoming, only being.
She asks "Who will I become today?"
I ask "Who are you?"
Joni
1/31/07
Art credit: Lynne Rutter
9 comments:
How many times have we all thought those thoughts at the start of an evening at the bar... Great insights...
As intriguing as the author.
I love your poetry. You craft like sultry southern evenings on the hood of a car, watching the nightsky and fireflies while your bra is slowly inched away from your body.
Ya know?
Great piece...as always.
;)
---
Joni,
This poem reminds me of a Jack Vettriano painting. Very evocative.
billie
Jason - Thanks for stopping by. I know what you mean about the bar scene. Honestly, I don't like the woman in this poem very much.
Wendy - Thanks for the compliments. As always.
Billie - Vettriano - YES!
Lovely!
(((WINTER!!!)))
Thanks for coming by, love. So good to see you again!
Honestly, I don't like the woman in this poem very much.
That is apparent from this seat.
----
The idea of choosing our weakness rings so genuine. We all do, don't we. The trick is recognizing it. Without excuse or holding our hands over one eye. Good piece, dear.
beautiful poem--- had i known, i would have painted vera's nails red.
-lynne rutter
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