Feeding Swans

I am first to arrive at the house of a stranger who has roasted

a chicken, pureed kale and apples into a smoothie

and set the round table with three porcelain plates rimmed

with blue for this supervised lunch date.

We sit across from each other on the last warm

day in autumn. The tree above the wrought iron

gazebo drops its small seeds around us. I don’t know

the name of this tree and wonder what that says about me.

He’s uncomfortable with the position of the fire—

the way the wind whips the smoke into our faces.

I’m too busy trying to be good enough to notice. He wants

to start eating and I want to wait for our friend to arrive.

I need this chaparoned conversation to work

because I haven’t  done well on my own and I’m too old

to start spending my nights strolling the chain of downtown

bars trying to score free drinks from fat wallets.

Once I read a story about Gautami, a poor village girl who lived

to submit and obey. The prince took her as a concubine

and the son she bore rejected her, but Gautami found happiness

in a hut and the duty of feeding the palace swans.

If only my life were that simple.

If only.

~Pamela L. Taylor © 2013

The truth is we don’t know

what you are or how you do

what you do—fill the space

behind the light, be everything

we don’t see and can’t help

but feel. Bright minds seek

to unmask your mass, contain

your essence within elaborate

calculations like a pet canary.

But the universe is no gilded cage

and human genius is no match

for a force greater than gravity.

I am content with your mystery, to know

you are (everywhere, always, around)—me.

~Pamela L. Taylor © 2013

Sleep, My Dear

You were my first taste of love,

adored before these lips knew how

to suckle sweet milk from the breast.

Last night you crept home past

midnight and I shivered against your cool

breath. You’re more distant than Pluto,

as unpredictable as those quakes that split

the earth. The long-cold nights stretch endless

and I stare wide-eyed into the unquiet

darkness, wild thoughts my only company. I want

to go back to those evenings when the smooth

of my cheek met your caress and my body

exhaled next to you, to those rested

mornings when my eyes blinked

away the sweet remnants of dreams.

Lover, come back to our bed.

~Pamela L. Taylor © 2013

Evening Calls

And just like that

you appeared below

the sickle of moon

and Venus,

that dark goddess

of evening.

What type of

fickle magic

conjured

this Adonis

among men—

his rugged frame,

distant eyes and hollow

voice that shakes the owl

from slumber calling

who, who, who?

~ Pamela Taylor © 2013

In Autumn, While You Lay Dying

This poem has been published in the Fall 2013 Issue of When Women Waken (Theme: Grief).

Lessons in Commuting

Erzulie Dreams

Her heart sits below the waist

in an open drawer, boxed in

by nothing but air. Her useless

arms have fallen off–there’s no

curve in her hips, only bone.

With shut eyes and mouth, she dreams.

A coiled necklace quiets the screams.

~Pamela L. Taylor © 2013

~Inspired by a mixed media sculpture by Renée Stout in the Virginia Museum of Fine Art

To Be Abelia

Like the shrub I bloom best in full

or partial sun and ample rain, surrounded

by buzz and flutter. But loveless years

have pruned back hopes, cut fairy-tale

dreams to the ground. What will grow

from this stub of myself? How much

longer before flowers return?

~Pamela L. Taylor © 2013

Inspired by “You’re an Abelia,” on Story Shucker. 

Once again, I’m writing a poem a day in support of all the NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) writers in their challenge to produce 50,000 words in 30 days.

Tree in Abscise

From the window, I watch you become

inflamed as if shamed by the sudden

rush of your own beauty. Not long ago you idled

in the heat of summer’s yawn, camouflaged

in tender verdure. I thought this was your true

nature, but now I see the way you draw the dew

within, shed what won’t last through winter.

~ Pamela L. Taylor  © 2013