Crawlspace

I slink
through the crawlspace
of your shell
peering past damaged walls
where beer cans and smashed glass
line the musty hall.

At night,
I dream of escape
slipping out
to the moist grass
beneath naked feet.

The only thing left -
these wild, jealous shadows
in the attic
where I lived.

Burning Man

You're heading out to the desert
to the place where they burn the man -

Looking post-apocolyptic in ski goggles
making bike tracks in smoking sand.
One thousand critical tits will kick up crimson dust
red clay will mat your hair.
You'll bathe in high noon sun's sweat
as acoustics run down your back.
A house-height vagina will parade
down tent-city's street
putting Georgia O'Keefe to shame.
Doctors will become burlesque
toting their whips and chains.
You'll get a henna tattoo stamped on your ass
'cause you can play the game.
Laced up in leather,
you'll eat a magic cookie,
escaping this fantasy place
where hope suspends from The Big Dipper
shining in smog-free sky
and you'll realize that you -
you are vanilla
cool and classic
elegant throughout time.

Salvation

Why didn't you ignore the priest?
Who put a price on love.
Eternal salvation in exchange for forsaking
your Flesh and Blood.

I drank from your cup
sipping everlasting trust
learning the greatest gift is to forgive
free of conditions from above.

Ash

We smoke in remembrance
lay you to rest
broken hearts beat in present time

she's not the siren i expected
can't remember why i was jealous

no wonder you never wanted us to meet
we would see the barb in between

now i swim in sea green eyes
dive to where her bruised soul
touches mine

we lick each others' wounds
heal beneath the green cotton sheets
in that tiny apartment on King Street.

Alive

There's nothing like
sleeping with death
to make you feel
alive.

Whisper

We whisper who we are
behind closed doors as
fresh water drips from our breasts and hips
strips the illusions we succumb to.

She asks me if we'll ever run out of things to talk about and
I think not because conversation is malnourished
in this hyper-texted post-orgasmic cosmic consciousness
where language is stripped
red raw and bleeding
the Scarlet Letter dripping through the creases.

But I breathe easy in the presence of greatness
of words creating images
and the elegance of language.

Disillusion

That spring,
snow covered pink tulips
frosted the rhododendrons.
Four seasons in equilibrium –
harmony.

That spring,
she allowed disillusion
to demystify her vision.
A spinning soul
Set free.

© Betsy Turcot