USA

tomjones1965@juno.com 

Chauffeur

I went to find you in the night,
To the airport where the flight,
Due to arrive, instead departed like a ghost.
A strange, cold night for any host
Who traveled in a silent limousine.

I went to the airport and back
Like an ungrateful host, and stood
Admiring the pictures in the stack
Of albums on my desk of painted wood.
I stood admiring the time we spent

Alone or on a country road at night,
Far from the city or its light,
Frightened by the ghosts that came and went,
Frightened by admiring pictures stacked
In rows like sheets of corn across a field.

I stood motionless, waiting in the cold
For the familiar painted face
To dissipate the ghostly sheets
That crept into my thoughts at night,
That fluttered like the flowers
Of curtained limousine and hearse.

A strange, cold comfort gripped me tight.
I paced across the floor and back
And wept to look upon the wood
That once held the secret to a face.
I could not help but think you would not come:

Your bowed head, your cowed embrace,
The cold kiss upon the forehead like a bell,
Would fly away with the departing flight
And leave me alone again to wonder
Over stack of wood and pictographs
Who it was I was supposed to meet
And steal away in flower painted hearse.

Is There Fertility After Menopause?

From test tube to cancer,
It waits to merge together
Then to evacuate the womb.

Encouraged by doctor, she agrees
To harbor life. A victim of science,
She waits nine months.

Her body unequipped, nauseous,
shocked, hears inhuman grunts
From the watery home.

When it begins, she shakes in fury
At the most painful arrival
Of fangs, head, body, legs.

The doctor flings his mask.
Mucoused, webbed and mottled,
It sits up, looks and croaks.

Nurses scream and leave the room.
The old lady's teeth pop out
At the creature just brought forth.

Moon Shadows

Love of men, intensive care,
the heartbeat gone with a glimpse,
the body alone like dust and mold,
parents long since departed,
friends nowhere to be found,
arid pews in the church
you and he attended, old boots
where he hid the coins,

his coins in your pocket 
which you sprinkle in the plate,
plate and coins the shape of wafers,
the host shining like the moon.
The priest hisses when you hesitate
and refuse to let go of the coins,
the memory of your friend
on the day of his death.
Was cleaning up his bed
worth the effort? Only the priest
knows of your confession,
of your affair with the beloved, silver eyes

of Mary staring down at you,
the suffering of his eyes
as he refused to die in vain,
though he knew it was over,
the rosary and Eucharist
mixed up in one wild orgy
with the hissing snake and screams,

the priest's voice hissing at you
to give up desire for what
you cannot, can never possess,
and instead seek the way of Artemis,
feminine flame, wood goddess,
huntress of dying souls,
moon catcher, life mother, nurse.

The boots hurt as you walk home,
the deity, the host, the coins in your pocket,
the love of men his only love,
that secret you know too well,
the miniature of Mary around your neck
like a serpent entwined, talisman
of caduceus, antedote to poison,
like your fingers entwined unwind
as you undress, scatter your clothes, 
pull away the sheets stained
with the silver of the moon.

© All Copyright, 2000, Thomas D. Jones.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.