Three Poems
19 January 2007 16:56![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
skonen_bladesI
This is the curse of the carpenter’s widow.
Carved on the trees ‘round her home.
She hacks at the wood with her husband’s old tools
And chips out the shapes of alone.
He never taught her the skills or the heft
Her hands are quite thick now and scarred
Some fingers are missing but she pushes on
She learns as she goes and it’s hard
Chairs that are sculpted right into the trunk
And toys that are carved in relief
Tables and cradles and ladders and shelves
And branches graffitied in grief
There in the forest surrounding her home
Is a slowly expanding new stain
It starts at her door and it grows every year
A furniture store made of pain
They bear bitter fruit that will never be used
It’s the art of this dying old crone
Every tree that she starts on will die without skin
But live on in the shape of alone.
II
This is the curse of the tailor’s young nymph
Or soon to be young fiancée
She works in his store and watches the dresses
Of other brides day after day
Her man serves the rich but is not rich himself
So the wedding won’t be in July.
That’s when the others get married, he says,
In the spring, in the light. It’s a lie.
No we’ll have an October wedding.
To insure we don’t lose too much cash
And we’ll have it at night when the store is closed up
And I’ll wear a violet sash!
She knows that her gown will not be as nice
As the one that she just sold today
Or the day before that or the day before that
or last week, or in June or in May.
Her love is a tailor so she will look good
In the rags from the cutting room floor
In the scraps from the dresses he sells to the rich
and she knows she won’t feel like a whore
like the rich giggling girls dressed in thousands of dollars
of fabric and flowers and jewels
who’s one single talent is sleeping with princes
and being related to fools.
She knows that her dress will be patchwork and that
Her wedding will be quite unique
She wishes she didn’t feel jealous of them
She feels undeserving and weak.
III
This is the curse of the wigmaker’s bitch
The one that he keeps on the side.
She’s rude and she’s huge and she curses like men
She’s a pretty big secret to hide
Almost as big as her heart is despite all her bluster
About her hard life
When the wigmaker comes to her bedroom at night
She sings like a fisherman’s wife.
Wigmakers are, by profession, it’s said,
No good if they are not gay
So the wigmaker’s bitch must be hidden and loved
In the dark, late at night, far away.
He only has one and this one he loves
When he can, when it’s safe, when he’s sure,
He’s queer as a three dollar bill when it’s light
But at night he’s a one man brochure
Of places to see and fun things to do on the island
Of Wigmaker’s Bitch
Of cliffs to jump off of and lakes to go swim in
And restaurants and places to itch.
He leaves with the dawn. She awaits his return.
Her cursing and meanness begin.
Her love for the time he can spare is a curse
And her longing feels almost like sin.
tags
This is the curse of the carpenter’s widow.
Carved on the trees ‘round her home.
She hacks at the wood with her husband’s old tools
And chips out the shapes of alone.
He never taught her the skills or the heft
Her hands are quite thick now and scarred
Some fingers are missing but she pushes on
She learns as she goes and it’s hard
Chairs that are sculpted right into the trunk
And toys that are carved in relief
Tables and cradles and ladders and shelves
And branches graffitied in grief
There in the forest surrounding her home
Is a slowly expanding new stain
It starts at her door and it grows every year
A furniture store made of pain
They bear bitter fruit that will never be used
It’s the art of this dying old crone
Every tree that she starts on will die without skin
But live on in the shape of alone.
II
This is the curse of the tailor’s young nymph
Or soon to be young fiancée
She works in his store and watches the dresses
Of other brides day after day
Her man serves the rich but is not rich himself
So the wedding won’t be in July.
That’s when the others get married, he says,
In the spring, in the light. It’s a lie.
No we’ll have an October wedding.
To insure we don’t lose too much cash
And we’ll have it at night when the store is closed up
And I’ll wear a violet sash!
She knows that her gown will not be as nice
As the one that she just sold today
Or the day before that or the day before that
or last week, or in June or in May.
Her love is a tailor so she will look good
In the rags from the cutting room floor
In the scraps from the dresses he sells to the rich
and she knows she won’t feel like a whore
like the rich giggling girls dressed in thousands of dollars
of fabric and flowers and jewels
who’s one single talent is sleeping with princes
and being related to fools.
She knows that her dress will be patchwork and that
Her wedding will be quite unique
She wishes she didn’t feel jealous of them
She feels undeserving and weak.
III
This is the curse of the wigmaker’s bitch
The one that he keeps on the side.
She’s rude and she’s huge and she curses like men
She’s a pretty big secret to hide
Almost as big as her heart is despite all her bluster
About her hard life
When the wigmaker comes to her bedroom at night
She sings like a fisherman’s wife.
Wigmakers are, by profession, it’s said,
No good if they are not gay
So the wigmaker’s bitch must be hidden and loved
In the dark, late at night, far away.
He only has one and this one he loves
When he can, when it’s safe, when he’s sure,
He’s queer as a three dollar bill when it’s light
But at night he’s a one man brochure
Of places to see and fun things to do on the island
Of Wigmaker’s Bitch
Of cliffs to jump off of and lakes to go swim in
And restaurants and places to itch.
He leaves with the dawn. She awaits his return.
Her cursing and meanness begin.
Her love for the time he can spare is a curse
And her longing feels almost like sin.
tags