Issue 15
Summer 2003
Marie Lecrivain
Marie Lecrivain is a writer/photographer residing in Los Angeles. Her work has been published in the ezines Electric Acorn, The Blue House, Unlikely Stories and Poetry Niederngasse. A collection of poetry, Canticle of a Bored Hausfrau will be published by Sybaritic Press later this year.
Pieta
Remember the foggy morning on the bus.
Abandoned to sleep, in her lap
small hands twined 'round her strong forearm.
Damp hair plastered to his forehead
brushed away with her kisses-
inhaled his scent of milk and need.In the evening,
by the bus stop,
struggling with his heavy body propped
in her withered arms,
breath once so sweet
labors with each heartbeat,
rivulets of blood
all over her faded housecoat.
Remember when soft skin was merely
not blemished with Old English script,
clown faces,
spider-webs,
women with flowing raven hair and crystal teardrops?
When velvet lids moved to the rhythm of childish dreams,
instead of not moving at all?
Head lolls back,
weight maligning an ancient shoulder.
She braces for the impact of the moment.
The spirit leaving his body
worse than the pain of
his entry into the world.Head on her shoulder,
scalding tears,
cannot soften the granite features Morpheus
carved into the face of her son.
Sorrow has no sheen,
no patina to disguise the loss.Nothing noble
in the death of her only child.He was no savior,
though much loved-
and tenderly missed.
Solitary Boy
We are formal outside the ether-
permit me entrance into your inner sanctum.
I witness what I've long suspected-
everything you've said to me is true.Warmth is real. Honeyed tones pour
forth. These lost ones are unfettered,
in the solace of your company.
New identities and wisdom imbuethis brotherhood purpose to travel
through the heart of the flame your
soul awakened. But, you sit there
so quiet-stillness has veiled youin memory, carries you down the river
away from those you are connected.
Untitled
We seduce through power of the word
feel the souls encounter, entwine-
though my heart is much disturbed
or lack of touch, your hand on mine
would prove all my darkest dreams
have taken root in your mind.
Alas, life can't be what it seems-
you've left me no choice but to find
escape from the specter of despair.
Sorrow - your absence seeks to bind
my feelings to the fearful nadir
of entropy- render bleak and blind,
my eyes, the steps I must take to
seek the true path back to you.
La Huera
It's one those times I feel like a white girl
as I'm walking down Echo Park Ave
at 7:22 pm on a Wednesday evening.
The air smells like doughnuts and Pioneer chicken
and I watch the sunset as she kisses the
tops of the palm trees goodnight.It's one of those times I feel like a white girl
as I'm walking down Echo Park Ave at 7:24 on a Wednesday evening.
I see the skater boys jumping off the piled up milk crates
and the long beat up ramp
with no regard for pedestrians,
and I think back to the kids in my old neighborhood
with their new skates and shiny ten speed bikes
and realize-
they'll never be as cool as the ones
right here and now.It's one of those times I feel like a white girl
as I'm walking down Echo Park Ave at 7:27 on a Wednesday evening,
and I see the white guy from Apt # 4
in my building yelling at the
Mexican family of one mom,
four kids and a grandmother with a baby in her arms yelling,"No, the apartment is not ready yet!
It's not for rent!
It's not ready for rent yet!
Not for Rent!
NOT FOR YOU!"He walks back inside.
The mother looks over at me and asks,
"Please how many bedrooms?"
I can't tell her about the family that lived there before,
the filth-
the trash-
the smell-
the nine cats that pissed in the hallway-
the fistfights at 3 am-
the eviction that took a year-
the shit I found smeared on my doorway.I look back at her and say,
"One bedroom-
but-
it's not available right now.
It's really messed up from the last person.
Do you want to try again in a couple of months?"It's one of those times I feel like a white girl
as I'm watching that family walk down Echo Park Ave
at 7:31 on a Wednesday evening.
I know she thought I was lying to her-
but, I wasn't.
Universal TranslatorIf I could lay between your feet,
feel you whisper
your name to me,
I still wouldn’t understand,
the language of trees.
Gathered on the wind,
filtered down through leaves,
breathed into my ear.
Beautiful-
still beyond anything in me,
but the love
of sounds.