younger, she wrote of transcendence beyond
the body, of ecstasies grander than
what the flesh can offer; she wrote of
experiences so wholly spiritual
nothing might compare. such were her metaphors
many considered sublime . . . with age and life
experience, her poetry turned more
toward the body, the thrill of nerves touched by
hands of her true love; later, the bodily
longing for her abandoner, thence to
thrills of a new love; as a mother, she
wrote of such sensations as birth and nursing;
now in dotage, she writes of the cats who
keep her company while she pines for youth.

David M Pitchford

she and me and a bottle of red wine,
questions of cosmic significance tossing
back and forth in a hotel room after
the symposium, philosophies of
struggle and economics, of art and
psychology, of class and caste—we tossed
around expressions like disenfranchised
and plebeian and bourgeoisie; concepts:
opportunity and entitlement,
under-privileged and . . . and in the end,
it was all words to open the windows
between souls to let the light in. We made
love out of shared ideals, but in the end—
nothing but talk. this world remains the same.

David M Pitchford

night after night in the twilight of dreams
you stand beside a brightness blinding
its jeweled hues string my heart into
bright realms and I wonder at the truth
of love glowing from your presence like
promises of succor and rescue from deep
depths of evil times when the world seems
full of dark enemies and hateful, merciless
foes who trample thoughtless what does
not suit them or make them wealthy, eaters
of the impoverished who hold the world
beneath them and brag to heaven their
vast superiority while beneath armored
breasts they harbor fears no less than ours.

David M Pitchford