BOX

In the box of mirrors

You can see

The puppet of yourself

From all sides

She is vain

She likes to preen and pose

She does not see anything else

She cannot see anything else

But what what is reflected

On the walls of her

fingerprint-smeared prison

She is happy because she is

Allowed to do what she likes best

She is unaware that she is trapped

And forced to move

By your hands

Roma Dreams

Tonight, I dance through the atchin'tan

Celebrating my life and my music.

My lips are bright with the sheen of orange juice and laughter.

I dance around the bonfire, as it rises higher

with ghosts and gentle shadows.

Those I know and love dance with me and offer

Broken arms to lead my whirling feet through the

Dew of dawn.

A bear rises, graceful, above me -

His eyes gentle with love -

As he dances to the sound of my flute,

Silhouetted against the flame,and

Two become one.

My way is lit by the fireflies that bless me - and

By the moon's reflection in my father's eyes.

We are all alone, on the edge of the forest,

Watched by a doe and her fawn who know

That the birds are silent because they no longer live -

Drowned by my tears.

My brother and captain leads me in the last,

Unending dance,

Bows to me, then tucks into his belt the prickly thistle

I gave him in return for the

Full-blown, perfect red rose

That I now wear in my hair.

I can see through his body,

The forms of animals and loved ones,

dark grey and ethereal, intangible.

Our music keeps the rhythm of the bell

Tolling in the distance -

My tambourine in time with the beat of his drum.

When, unsmiling, I stop – I see the dying fire,

The fading memories, the darkness melting into sunrise.

There is no sound, no movement now, but my voice

Singing along with one clear bell

Ringing Matins in the distance.

Twisted Twine

I see several pairs of giant hands reach out

To manipulate a string - I see

Myself dangling at the end of the string

I see the hands twist the string; the string

Winds up until it's doubled over on itself;

I see that the string is now wound so tight,

It can be wound no further

I see the hands release the string, with

Me dangling from the end of it; it's wound tight around

My hand, making a wound, cutting me deeply

Into my skin, making me bleed

I see the string unwinding, spinning

Faster and faster, with me at the end of it

Losing control - until I can no longer

Hold on, and I fall off or jump off, just to

Get away from the motion sickness.



The Rose






She watches, rapt, as he

rubs the silky petals against his face

and buries his breath in its sweetness.



Oblivious to anything else

(unaware of her secret mind-photograph)

he cups the blossom delicately and traces

one finger down the stem

and pierces it on a thorn.



Dreamily, he watches as the bead of dark

blood magically appears on his finger.

He holds it up against the flower;

matches the richness of colour,

then touches it to his lips,

and it's gone.



She watches, rapt, and wishes that the

blood-red was her skin, and the rose was

watching silently, secretly, jealously

instead.




She Is All









The moonful goddess shines through me

hair sprayed behind her like light

I love a man who is the sun

ripening me into sweet fruit

two into one into eternity

this delicate symphony sings, chants, screams, moans...

the music pleading no, stop, please no stopping

pink spring, green summer, red fall, blue winter

rain pounds, mist lingers, languid dreams must never tell

his tongue is sweet and my skin is smooth

I am delirious beneath the frantic need

I want - he wants - sweat slick upon my breast

drunk with urging, aching, and weakness.



Holding my fire in dark gold flow,

I drink music that will touch me.

For when the goddess leaps to the sky

Quiet morning dawn once again is free.

Jillian Karen Knapp