Amelia Arcamone-Makinano

Devilish Interruption of Mass

Why should I apologize

for admiring those stained-glass wings

folding in a moment of humility

eternally pressed into lead veins?

I'm intoxicated with sinful colors

but even the chiaroscuro

would have me knee-bent

with pleasure

As the priest sings

Dominus Vobiscum

I am drawn to the wink

gathered in the warmth of his wings

clinging to the fire.


After she sat down

He removed her

One curl at a time.

Amelia Arcamone-Makinano © 2009

Cafe 18

After the people discarded themselves

to expose their egos

to lean further into each living particle

I could swear they all must have

known each other for a very long time

as I rubbed against their velvet shadows

which they tossed against the hard, brick wall

along with my half-sister, half fantasy

who paused for our conversation

turning away from her torso

in one empty eye socket

holding a candle

fully dressed

wearing my face.

In Cafe 18 I was eating leftover poems

from center-stage rhythms

that reached me half-empty enough

to complete my own imaginings

and my half-sister took me deeper

to find other human relationships

without walking away from the cedar table

we found Our Lady of the Flowers

breasts pinned under her mouth of red petals

that needed to unstick before opening

wide enough to release one honeysuckle tongue.

Her voice came sweet

she spoke not with words

with perfume her mouth stayed innocent

her skin was so soft

I couldn't find the place where hers ended

and mine began

to swirl in ever widening circles

with movements as subtle as

ripples that did not have the

strength to lift the skirts of water lilies

from the moss covered pond.

In Cafe 18 I wonder why

Our Lady of the Flowers is always

the last we visit

why the poet on the stage

is stuffing his mouth full of words

instead of chrysanthemums.

Amelia Arcamone-Makinano © 2009