barbara fletcher / poemstag:www.barbarafletcher.com,2007-11-15:/poems//92007-12-06T20:26:27ZMovable Type Publishing Platform 4.01Taking minutes at the Tuesday morning meetingtag:www.barbarafletcher.com,2007:/poems//9.16102007-11-18T18:48:20Z2007-12-06T20:26:27ZAnd again, just like last week,it is the word war. The war of words.Threats hurled across polished wood tablesskid across the slick surface,slam into expensive suits.Arrows shot from between bleached teethpierce the air with poisoned saliva.Every Monday morning she recordsthe...bfletcherhttp://www.barbarafletcher.com
it is the word war. The war of words. Threats hurled across polished wood tables skid across the slick surface, slam into expensive suits. Arrows shot from between bleached teeth pierce the air with poisoned saliva.
Every Monday morning she records the battle waged in tongues, where voice collides with voice, and egos fall wounded onto the table. But today she can't stop looking at his pale lips as each syllable fires from his mouth with military precision. Each moist movement articulates words designed to maim. Today she wants those lips on her, mouthing dangerous consonants and vowels against her neck. ]]>
Crumbstag:www.barbarafletcher.com,2007:/poems//9.16092007-11-18T18:47:10Z2007-12-06T20:21:16ZShe reads the future in the crumbs scattered across the table,brown bits arranged into dullconstellations on the shiny wood:heroes and warriorsgoing against the grain.Carousel (Issue 19), April 2006...bfletcherhttp://www.barbarafletcher.com
in the crumbs scattered across the table, brown bits arranged into dull constellations on the shiny wood: heroes and warriors going against the grain. ]]>
Sandtag:www.barbarafletcher.com,2007:/poems//9.16892007-11-18T18:45:46Z2008-03-07T17:39:17ZThe veins on the backof your tan-coloured handrise up like snakes of sand,swirl across endless desert: fishscales that shift and ripple,catch light in flash movementagainst the etch of settled siltbeneath shallow water.I expect your hands to feel dryagainst my face,...bfletcherhttp://www.barbarafletcher.com
of your tan-coloured hand rise up like snakes of sand, swirl across endless desert: fishscales that shift and ripple, catch light in flash movement against the etch of settled silt beneath shallow water.
I expect your hands to feel dry against my face, expect the crosshatch creases to chafe me. But there is no desiccant clutch, no sandpaper scrape; your desert hands do not pull moisture from my lips; instead the dry warmth brushes my skin with warm weightlessness.
Slowly you blow against me, hot breath fills my ears, my eyes. My lungs struggle against your increasing heaviness.
The veins on your forehead rise to the hot surface, ripple with intensity. I am thirsty, and into my open mouth you deliver sand.
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Amphibioustag:www.barbarafletcher.com,2007:/poems//9.16082007-11-18T18:45:26Z2007-12-06T20:27:34ZWind gusts smooth the field of long grassesbend the tall thin blades to their green-silver underside;Dip and ripple. Swish and splash.The breeze blows grass into sea.We dive headfirst into cool greenness, arms partblades with each stroke, legs sweep past jade...bfletcherhttp://www.barbarafletcher.com
bend the tall thin blades to their green-silver underside; Dip and ripple. Swish and splash. The breeze blows grass into sea.
We dive headfirst into cool greenness, arms part blades with each stroke, legs sweep past jade stalks that curve in our wake. We pause for watery kisses, tongues tasting salt and green sweetness.
I could swim here for hours with you, slice through shining wind-waves as the air rushes above. But you begin to feel the familiar pressure, the need for breath: it draws you to the surface with brutal buoyancy.
You explode into air, suck lungfuls into empty chambers as I wait suspended in familiar green below. I wrap fins around your ankles, pull you down into the swell, know the short time you can spend submerged, the necessity of breath.
Small bubbles leave your lips, travel toward the surface. And I wish for a current to catch you, endow you with the gift of gills, draw the mammalhood from your blood. ]]>
Ariatag:www.barbarafletcher.com,2007:/poems//9.16072007-11-18T18:44:17Z2007-12-06T20:17:00ZThe woman in the green hatand corkscrew hair stirs a coffeein the sunlight, coaxes noteswith the thin strip of wood:whole rich notes conducted upwardfrom the soft swirl of brownwhere they explode into musicin the golden strikes of light.nthposition online, June...bfletcherhttp://www.barbarafletcher.com
and corkscrew hair stirs a coffee in the sunlight, coaxes notes with the thin strip of wood: whole rich notes conducted upward from the soft swirl of brown where they explode into music in the golden strikes of light. ]]>
Missing piecestag:www.barbarafletcher.com,2007:/poems//9.16062007-11-18T18:43:25Z2007-12-06T20:15:39ZShe woke up to discoverthere were pieces of her missing,portions plucked from skinnot ready to give them up,only flaps of flesh remained -like the smooth, wet holesthat wisdom teeth leave behind:cavernous openings missing boneand enamel, half-concealed by gumsthat slowly collapse...bfletcherhttp://www.barbarafletcher.com
there were pieces of her missing, portions plucked from skin not ready to give them up, only flaps of flesh remained - like the smooth, wet holes that wisdom teeth leave behind: cavernous openings missing bone and enamel, half-concealed by gums that slowly collapse over the vacant spaces.
Again she would need to pinch the folds together and wait for the skin to seal with a scab, to swallow the wounds with a scar, to enclose the vacancy like a vault. Let the empty pockets heal into silence. ]]>
Eye for an Itag:www.barbarafletcher.com,2007:/poems//9.16052007-11-18T18:41:59Z2007-12-06T20:28:52ZThe slap of my skin on skin interrupts sleep but continues the dream. I half-wake to the sound of my fists connecting precisely with muscles and bones and teeth, the echoless thuds of hands slugging something surrendered. And I am...bfletcherhttp://www.barbarafletcher.com
interrupts sleep but continues the dream. I half-wake to the sound of my fists connecting precisely with muscles and bones and teeth, the echoless thuds of hands slugging something surrendered.
And I am seven again, appetite whetted by semi-conscious fantasies of punching Vicki until there was more blood than skin: face swollen, bones snapped her body a throbbing passive purple welt.
But what I really wanted was five minutes of her eye in my head, her tooth in my mouth. ]]>
Blood testtag:www.barbarafletcher.com,2007:/poems//9.16042007-11-18T18:41:07Z2007-12-06T20:11:15ZShe watches her blood spatter into four vials:the purple and orange rubber topspressed in turn to the plastic cylinderat the base of a line of gleaming metalembedded into the flat white andunfreckled plane of her arm.The needle noses inside the...bfletcherhttp://www.barbarafletcher.com
the purple and orange rubber tops pressed in turn to the plastic cylinder at the base of a line of gleaming metal embedded into the flat white and unfreckled plane of her arm.
The needle noses inside the blue vein welcomes the warm rush of red that engulfs its slim and silver point, drawing warmth into itself before shooting into tubes, wine red and bright: a spectacle to distract from the potential code it carries. ]]>
After losing contact lenses at a friend's partytag:www.barbarafletcher.com,2007:/poems//9.16032007-11-18T18:40:17Z2007-12-06T20:09:10ZWithout eyes (the clear and clinging half-spheres that move things into focus)you are barely distinguishable from the sidewalk. Buildings and cars are impressionist dabson a black velvet canvas.Without eyes, colours intensify, freed from detail, and you are a smear of...bfletcherhttp://www.barbarafletcher.com
half-spheres that move things into focus) you are barely distinguishable from the sidewalk. Buildings and cars are impressionist dabs on a black velvet canvas.
Without eyes, colours intensify, freed from detail, and you are a smear of blue light between indistinct pinwheels of red and white taillights. The next morning your hands are pigeons that flutter above my blue T-shirt sky ]]>
Toscin (an omen)tag:www.barbarafletcher.com,2007:/poems//9.16022007-11-18T18:38:02Z2007-12-06T20:30:30ZIFound a finger in the snowslush:a perfect digit with an iced-blue knuckleand purpleblue nail, stiff and pristine.Thought a finger would be uselesswithout a hand, but it made an impeccableutensil for writing names in the snow.IIThis past Autumn our pines and...bfletcherhttp://www.barbarafletcher.com Found a finger in the snowslush: a perfect digit with an iced-blue knuckle and purpleblue nail, stiff and pristine. Thought a finger would be useless without a hand, but it made an impeccable utensil for writing names in the snow.
II
This past Autumn our pines and spruce trees were weighted down with an abundance of cones: heavy brown omens of a long and treacherous Winter, of dangerous drifts, and bluecold faces and fingers.
III
Mittened hands shake snow from a girl's hat and coat and marbled skin, poke fire into her hypothermic limbs; their eyebrows are stretched into question marks but their eyes lock in truth, knowing, as they drag her from the bloodstained snow, gloveless and missing one finger. ]]>
Terraintag:www.barbarafletcher.com,2007:/poems//9.16012007-11-18T18:36:01Z2007-12-06T20:32:03ZShe has never known this need:to feel the texture of your tongue trace a river over the topography of her shoulders, to feel its journey over the pebbled path of her spine mapping out each vertebra,to feel the warm dampness...bfletcherhttp://www.barbarafletcher.com to feel the texture of your tongue trace a river over the topography of her shoulders, to feel its journey over the pebbled path of her spine mapping out each vertebra, to feel the warm dampness of your breath rise in clouds around each slight elevation of bone.
She has never known this desire: to feel your mouth move over each square of skin, measuring, to feel your lips search for freckled landmarks as you chart each contour, to feel your teeth mark out a legend on the white expanse of her back, tasting her geography, her terrain. ]]>
Revealedtag:www.barbarafletcher.com,2007:/poems//9.16002007-11-18T18:34:50Z2007-12-03T17:32:59ZWind creeps around concretedarts across the pavementand yanks up the woman's skirt.People stop to watch her,helpless, as the cloth liftslike a kite into air,white thighs and underthingsexposed to perverted play.And the man in the blue suitcannot help but stareat the...bfletcherhttp://www.barbarafletcher.com
darts across the pavement and yanks up the woman's skirt. People stop to watch her, helpless, as the cloth lifts like a kite into air, white thighs and underthings exposed to perverted play.
And the man in the blue suit cannot help but stare at the unintended exhibition, cannot help but wrap his eyes around the extent of shin and skin stretching upward to the tiny pink and polka-dotted panties that she cannot cover with skirt or hands or anything in this suspended moment when all is revealed to him. ]]>
Ferris-wheeltag:www.barbarafletcher.com,2007:/poems//9.15992007-11-18T18:33:53Z2008-03-07T18:06:16ZFrom my ninth-floor windowI see the fair lights spin pinwheels,orange and familiar.And I am back at the Fall Fair,with the aromas of french fry greaseand pungent onions, the odour of animalsand truck exhaust strongeven while waiting at the topof a...bfletcherhttp://www.barbarafletcher.com
I see the fair lights spin pinwheels, orange and familiar. And I am back at the Fall Fair, with the aromas of french fry grease and pungent onions, the odour of animals and truck exhaust strong even while waiting at the top of a rusted red ferris-wheel.
Swinging suspended in drizzled air, there is beer on his breath as he moves toward me, eyes shut, lips outstretched. I relent, but wait for the moment when the carriage swings downward, knocks his head backward, and fills my nose instead with the arrival of Autumn: the crispness that breaks under feet like leaves, and the dampness of earth that floats up in smoke, buoyant up and away from a clinging small town, to safe distances across cities. ]]>
Winter in the skytag:www.barbarafletcher.com,2007:/poems//9.15982007-11-18T18:32:57Z2007-12-03T17:31:41ZPressed between two worlds: a barren snowy landscapeof winter-white hills and plains,clouds smoothed from the compressionof heaven and hell. Sky and earth.If the window would just openshe would fling herself from the wingland in a snow bank, petal-soft and cold;...bfletcherhttp://www.barbarafletcher.com
a barren snowy landscape of winter-white hills and plains, clouds smoothed from the compression of heaven and hell. Sky and earth.
If the window would just open she would fling herself from the wing land in a snow bank, petal-soft and cold; she would gather up armfuls of white and toss snowballs back at the windows where white faces press against the glass portholes in wonder. ]]>
Banff, Labour Day, 2003tag:www.barbarafletcher.com,2007:/poems//9.15972007-11-18T18:31:23Z2007-12-03T17:31:03ZAll morning the air has tasted of smoke,noses and eyes burning with the memoryof campfires, bonfires, scorched pine.Weakened light stretches throughthe haze and onto the streets,illuminates particles and acrid breath.In the valley, tendrils of smoke windalong the river, curl around...bfletcherhttp://www.barbarafletcher.com
noses and eyes burning with the memory of campfires, bonfires, scorched pine. Weakened light stretches through the haze and onto the streets, illuminates particles and acrid breath. In the valley, tendrils of smoke wind along the river, curl around the mountains, cloak firs and spruce with charcoal scarves.
Soon the sky is enkindled, alight with the orange glow of distant forest fires. Smoke slithers across the sky, inches a caustic veil over the sun, asphyxiating the light into a smothered red orb. ]]>