The Threads That Bind
I.
We encounter our kindreds in the oddest of venues.
Connections are conceived,
webs weaved.
The words are spun.
II.
And if someday,
in Venice, on a patio at some trattorio,
in a palazzo overlooking the Grand Canal,
(and yes, I bullshited my way through that impromptu tour of Venice,
when would I have the time not to tell you),
we pass and nod and no, nothing happens,
Fates, don't be disappointed.
III.
That is not how this fairy tale is spun.
The glass slippers are Mahnolo's, that is
if there is any such thing as a fairy godmother.
I'm dreaming of fuck-me heels,
come-hither sneers, the way leather worn
is leather real, leather appeal, sex leather feel.
IV.
Sure, there were no traitors.
I've always been the faker.
Even these rhymes are a lie,
they started mid-way,
it looks like lies are on sale today:
two-for-one, getting while the going's hot.
V.
Reality's the joke,
something that gets caught in my throat.
Let's build a moat, keep the peasants in,
keep out the scoundrels, the men of the bush,
the warriors, the generals, all the other douches.
VI.
It begins again,
like when the rains came and you wore red
and I smelt copper all the time.
I puked out sulfur,
you didn't suffer,
we missed the last supper,
worse, the big offer.
VII.
It's always the greens, the sea without the wave,
the way you chop onions, twist your hair, head high –
Dali makes his entrance, you make a dive. It's the
rainstorms that drive you into the streets,
the brainstorms that soothe the savage heat,
the milestones that prove you got ‘em beat –
whatever it is, it sure do taste sweet.
copyright 2006 Katherine Andrews
