Fall 2000.


by Lurithen Fraser

She had come from walking on her tears
and even though space and time had carved
out this river where so many bodies
had let the wind fall into their bones,
she dangled.
It was at the edge where she was bruised
marooned, cradling, swollen inside
a shore that was not her doorway.
On the season-side of death she felt
her memory aging.
The woman had loved love with war
loving men who had promised
to bring the lavender moon shining
from her soul.
But those promises left footsteps
she couldn't wash away.
And the kisses lingered in the clutter
of lonely evening, where she allowed her dreams
to batter her until there was only
will to resurrect.
And that was when the tide
in her voice came red with rust spiraling
out Let go, Let it all go, Let it go, Let it all go in
this white womb of night.
In that white womb of night
was where she wished for the amethyst ocean
to turn away these ashes. These ashes
from the deep blue rocks that have been keeping
the dawn
from rising
purple and black.
She wanted loneliness to see the rouge lines
of time, cut into her palm
by men. The men who loved their anger
in the yellow mist
of summer thighs.
She wanted loneliness to break
against the beauty of men
who were scared
because she knew how to descant laughter
in the tragedies she had left behind.
She wanted men who walked on her tears.
Men who journeyed on swollen feet,
that cradled on the season-side of her love.
She wanted loneliness,
on the edge,
null and void
of strength,
on the edge,
finding it untimely
to dangle
in her bones.

LURITHEN FRASER feels her memory aging.