Tag Archives: beauty


And what is a happy story anyway?

The Purgatory story is the one people suffer through. It talks back.

The beautiful story is one sentence,

makes you cry or put down the book,

or go buy a candle to light and say thank you.

Who is that beautiful woman in Purgatory? I knew her when.

She is thinking about the skin of his arm at her cheek

as she exhales and is not afraid at this moment.

She gives him everything.

There is another room in Purgatory where she is alone

with what she has done and he is nowhere to be seen.

She was born to lift heavy things.

She lifts her arm to flex and kiss the muscle that keeps

her turning over the rocks where all that stuff is alive.

It is not pretty but it is fascinating

and she may yet find the sentence that is beautiful.



Matriarch you are wanting.

You are wanting control and the best for your children as you know it.

You are wanting, but your want is above clarity, above and beyond the clear seeing with only your concerns, your wringing concerns that squeeze the joy and spontaneity out of life and lives and children.

God,¬†you are beautiful even at this age and regal, but not so warm and not so smart as you think because your children hide themselves from you and so you don’t know them and you don’t know the facts of their lives and so you don’t know the foundation of your creation, this family you have brought to this place.

Matriarch, if I love you, if I can (and do I have to?), I wonder if you deserve it.

I would want beauty to blossom with age instead of this flourishing pallor of control in the skin of your face.

You are a juggler of beauty and control, but neither can win because something will be dropped and perhaps both.

Crash the control and the beauty is – oh – there is more beauty there in your surprise, in the ecstasy of your sorrow as you think it’s all lost now.

Face is lost, but your face is found.

Matriarch, you are wanting, but your wanting would change from this ring, this ring of children standing around waiting to berate and condemn and make to feel guilty the one who broke the rules, who wrote, who went away and wrote things down and lost the noose of obligation and did not grieve though he needed to.

Matriarch, you are wanting, but where is your love?

The magician in the square was talking about you, wasn’t she?

The cover is almost blown.

You are a myth.

Yes, I know, happiness is not guaranteed and sometimes all you have left is your dignity, but is there no faith in love?

Your writer son has tried to have faith in love, has drunk the wine to forget that the mother of his love on earth, his matriarchal heart needs a healing he has not imagined in all his letters, in all his lovers – he has not imagined the scene, the atmosphere, the blossom of what particular tree that would satisfy the wanting, would return the colour to the face of the mother.

Matriarch, your arch, your rule is informed by a shame that goes back so very long, that goes back to a longing misplaced.

Maybe it was a unique event, a girl woman’s walk across a square away from the gaze of the men who were on alert and she wasn’t expecting it, but she woke up and went stiff and kept walking and then the men wanted something they could not share and so it began.

The frugal distribution of affection and flirtation to keep the peace, to keep the honour, to keep the status, to keep the estate, the wealth, the access to the money, per year and all for what?

Can you count that up for me and send me the bill?

(Response to dream of 2013_05_08)