All Her Seasons Are Fiction

“…He died young. She lives

    faithful to his memory…”

  Cocktails pause...titillated.

Irony.  We grin and wink.

Such devotion! What a waste! 

Like nuns or the more handsome

model of anarchist.

 

Pulse lunges at her throat. Fine-veined

her eyelids drum their hurtling blood

(fine-veined her hands strum the frantic air)

Composure, composure...

 

From idle concern, someone

murmurs: She needs passion… passion!

We are not overheard.

Moving from room to room

her face betrays no violence.

 

Our faces age with claws.

She whirls, fresh, brilliant for her lover.

He receives her.

We turn from each other.

 

Reviews

[EMF]

While a beauiful summation of a moment, and its inevitable aftermath this work has so many levels that I feel the need to write something now, and come back to it later. On its surface level it has a heated eroticism that draws you to the climax. But you can see all the questions in the background.

Time to think.

[Ron]

This is an intense perceptive work. It is filled the type of thoughts that lurk beneath our veneers when we meet others in the delicate circumstances of this poem. Beautiful widow, still alone? What a waste! A waste to or for whom? Me or is it you? Dark feelings deepened as advancing years spare her and take us! This poem is not a read for the novice and it is not intended to be. It needs several reads and then the jarring starts as I see in myself the dark and some may say erotic thoughts woven in this poem. It is another meaty work of "Thurston" not for the amateur or faint hearted, dark and intense like the densest planets or metal elements.