Mair De-Gare Pitt

Crimson Lady

She is adorned with a necklace of tears
a smoky blouse of sighs,
with little tappy shoes that shine red
in the shadows.

Dainty blood-beads bracelet-dot her wrist
and hide in her scarlet skirt.

Sometimes she talks youth-speak
and paints its password on her mouth.
Tipsy lip-stick.

*

His key grinds
then wrenching, turns.
Her stomach churns.

The door swings;
china quivers.
She shivers.

Italian Retrospective

Like an old man, sky-full of memories,
Palazzo Blu invites us in
to wander through its layers of time.
TVs play flashes of mistakes on loops:
leather boots in flickering black and white,
the screen grainy with history like rheumy eyes.
Inlaid cabinets with secret drawers
hide whispers in dove-tailed spaces.

Regrets bow their heads in corners.
Galleries ring with grace-notes,
their triptychs in scarlet and gold-leaf
remembering love and loss and resurrection.

Like an old man, grateful for our time,
Palazzo Blu, head nodding, lets us go.

Mair De-Gare Pitt © 2018

Blodeuwedd

She watches the squirrel, sharp-clawing bark,
the lizard lounging, lazy on stones,
the minnow wearing the water like silk.

Fritillaries bob in the turquoise
haze; the broom
is patched with purple.

In the sweet meadow, petals quiver,
shimmer in the warm breeze breath
and the mirage-making heat.

Dusk fills the field with shade.
Sky-lit hills scoop up the black.
All is becoming in the changing light.

Cool in its own shade
the oak beckons with long shadows.
Blodeuwedd dreams of day and wakes to dark.

A tussock couches, rabbit-like; rabbits crouch, still as tussocks
then sprint as air made animate
as living ghosts.

She conspires with the Moon
in silver fear.
Small creatures tremble and freeze.

Over sleeping flowers she glides
listening for rustling grasses,
scenting heartbeats in the darkness.

In the tarnished night she kills.
She swoops, wing-breath whispering
cold on the meadow-sweet.

She visits like a veil flitting through fingers.
She visits like a stream in flood.
She visits like a half-wish, like a scattered rose.

She is terrible in the darkness.
She is Kali, red tongue lolling.
She is Fury, twitching to snip.

As the long day rises
she is Eve, consuming night-knowledge.
At last, birth-star Mary, Mother of us.

Now she is Wendy.
She is fragrant Florence.
Beneath the cool starch, is she razors?

Dark falls again and she burns.
Now she is Wendigo, owl-beaked.
Why is she starving? Has she been fasting?

Dawn breaks on the hillside,
showers gleam like shot silk.
She raises her hand to her heavy hair.

Mair De-Gare Pitt © 2018