bethany-mae-poetry

Validation

I’m not the good job sticker

On your grade school homework

Saying good job

Or great work

When it’s clear your intelligence is lacking

I’m not the micro fleece blanket

There to keep you warm and fuzzy

From your ice cold world

I will not be the validation

You are looking for

I will not be the validation

So that your bleeding

And your heart can feel comfortable

As your hand plunges the dagger

Into your own heart

Paris

I was thinking about

Paris, and falling in love

with a failing musician.

Satie was playing, as you would

expect. I’d wake up to the sun,

and the sound of the street out

the wooden shutters with peeling white paint

and failure would tempt and haunt

me like it always did. It is

always so tantalizing. Delicious,

seductive. It would rush toward me

like the sand pulling out from under

my feet on the beach. If our love

would die, it would go all at once,

catastrophically, not cancerously.

And Satie’s Gnossiennes played on,

haunting and evoking an idea

of unsettlingly sunny Parisian

street cafes, and a breeze disturbing

white curtains. I think that I could

see my feet slipping on the

snow. He told us to get out and

climb to the house. We’d have to

shovel out the driveway, down to the gravel.

It is ever so distant to think of an

impassioned decline. Meet me for coffee,

take the train to the coast. Write poetry while

your brain is lulled by the steady forward

rhythm. It’s not about the lulling, it’s

about his hands and the calloused fingertips

that gripped her skin, feeling the weight

of her. For her, him was to smell of

guitar strings and old warped pianos with strings inside

that will bend and resonate. The disharmony will

haunt you more than the melody, he will say

to her. You should know that his passion

is a full century behind you. I know nothing

of Paris, save how to ask for a whiskey, a grapefruit,

and the location of a washroom, but I suppose

that it is enough to be disassembled. And

Satie plays on, my reflection in the window,

scarlet yarn squared on my lap. Go to bed,

my dear, he whispers in my ears.

Validation

I’m not the good job sticker

On your grade school homework

Saying good job

Or great work

When it’s clear your intelligence is lacking

I’m not the micro fleece blanket

There to keep you warm and fuzzy

From your ice cold world

I will not be the validation

You are looking for

I will not be the validation

So that your bleeding

And your heart can feel comfortable

As your hand plunges the dagger

Into your own heart

Heresy

If I told you I didn’t believe in love,

would you believe me?

Or would you hate me?

If I told you I didn’t  believe in love,

would you accuse me of heresy?

Would you burn me at the stake for blasphemy?

And condemn me for eternity for the ultimate crime of unbelief?

Although, frankly, I don’t care if my cynicism causes only grief.

But would it disgust you to know that I believed in love only so far as its

      existence as an ideal?

It might annoy you,

but I won’t change what I feel.

But would it surprise you if I told you I believe in saying I love you?

Would it shock you if I told you there is nothing more beautiful and true

Than saying those three gorgeous and filthy words?