Volume 3 Issue 4, October 2019

Fabrice Poussin

A Perfect Death

 

There is no sweeter sense of a daze

than the glimmering edge of the sword

resting on your palm.

 

Joy permeates through your gaze

for you know the depth of your intent

clear in your breast.

 

Standing as if in an antique duel

in a stance not unlike of a fierce tango

you may strike at will while you smile.

 

The point will cause no pain

a quick arrow to vital powers

yet slow for of a thoughtful thrust.

 

I await the parting of the crimson fibers

upon the cold steel of a bluish blade

carving a path to the awe of an eternal abyss.

 

Then two warmths united by the flow of life

glad as they see the eyes of sleep

gently closing onto a most intimate numbness.

 

Her fingers now limp let loose of the handle

as the blood flows to the entrails of their soil

and a gentle kiss joins their fleeting lips. 

 

 

 

 

One Hundred Miles Away

 

A ritual of every summer day

one hundred miles away next door

to the child in search of knightly quest

 

The realm is wide and it is strange

to the legs yet too young for pantaloons

but the grail awaits in the domain of the queen.

 

Abandoned in the wilderness of a forgotten crop

the great horses have found solace in a legend

his squire naps in the shade of a fallen oak.

 

He runs to the gray of a half-broken lady

for a treat worthy of a king, a joust with paper valiant

a vision of a fay hovering before his wandering soul

 

From another millennium she clears the raspy words

holding the snuff box set in precious stones

and he smiles though she may spit to the ground.

 

She sits in the throne of ancestors

matriarch of the grandiose forests

he bows to the marvels of another summer day.

 

 

 

 

Sadness in the Bones

 

The face is drawn, dark, drooping inside as in despair,

in a moment otherwise pleasant, of a natural life;

 

Family whole and extended, all present for the treat

of flavors, aromas, tastes, colors and tender touches;

 

Cheek to cheek for the greeting, laughter and loud voices;

a world he seems only to witness, glad to be its creator;

 

An evening of gifts, good wishes, tender love;

where is his smiling, soul behind the Dali melt?

 

Outsider to the hour he made, spectator of a life

his own, yet so remote, he stands servant of ages;

 

His work remains his only aim, father of the night,

he must find joy for his devotion is the main course. 

 

 

 

Saving a Tear

 

Shuttering into a new language

she shivers with the breeze of dawn

bracing for the impact she knows so well.

 

The same storm brews below the skin

her eyes refuse to set on any surrounding

she cringes again with the shredding of her breast.

 

If only she could catch the tear

a message from distant realms

alive from the first lights of eternity.

 

Hear the voice as it tells you to gently

make your hands into a chalice

and receive the gift of a sister soul.

 

You know in this shallow darkness

that he is there crying for you to come

open your arms and welcome him to hour home. 

 

 

 

 

The River

 

It appears as a river of ivory lava

gently espousing the shores of her life

a soft fabric shaping a home to her soul.

 

She watches it flow from the icy source

a child with wide eyes in awe of a future

deep inside a taste of the mixture makes her quiver.

 

The eternal flashes before her in infinite frames

etching the story of so many dreams imagined

upon the walls of an invisible palace.

 

Cupping her hands as in a prayer she captures

the precious liquid as it reflects her image

from the speeding bed her prison and her shield.

 

As if it were the warm milk of her infancy

she insatiably drinks to the last drop

surrounded now by the glow of her wholeness.

 

Her arms open up for a most inviting embrace

as she softy reclines upon the arms of the abyss

transported she may now undertake her final voyage. 

 

 

Under a Golden Blanket

 

Warrior in his red cape

he howled at the moon at midday

dreaming of the maiden to rescue

middle-school knight with little to lose.

 

Across the aisle in her spring dress

enthralled by an author’s every word

she contemplated the little girl

cuddled in the warm womb of a mother.

 

A destiny in precious stones

sealed in certainty what could be theirs

in black in white they covered the path

under the arbor made of best wishes.

 

The hour glass began on its course

in a new home made of gentle reason

it rested comfortably for each day

upon decades solid as eternity. 

 

Chasing a star of honey and other delights

their journey ended beneath a golden blanket

a field of wheat by a scorching afternoon

spotted in crimson gashes of gory grimaces.

 

She had smiled until then

when the barrel upon her breast

she was made the object of monstrosity

to fall in the lone abyss of her lost innocence.

 

And he, vanquished conqueror felled

upon the root of budding lives

protecting with his senseless expiation

the warmth of her last loving words.

 

A field of infinite birthing nature

they lay in decay beneath the depth of space

victims of the unfathomable games

in their black and white costumes of ecstasy.

 

 

Walls of the Universe

 

The child touches the air

which surrounds him as if

a nurturing shroud.

 

He smiles with those eyes closed

while butterflies fill his entrails

with sparkling particles of eternity.

 

She knows within her primeval years

the growth of her being echoes

the realm made solely for her.

 

The child reaches for infinity

mutation into a grand future

becoming the image written for all times.

 

He leans against the ramparts

invisible to those who cannot imagine

all the wonders teasing our worlds.

 

She feels the origins of all things

her hands upon her breast

singing praises in apparent silence.

 

The grown thing finds rest at last

in the midst of those frigid walls of steel

its safe home of endless treasures.

About the Poet

Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and many other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications.

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Published by The Alternative.