Poetry: Fabrice B. Poussin

Final Talk

We never really knew his age
dressed in the weathered leather of years
he lay lost in the thoughts of decrepit bones.

Absent from the ongoing traffic of hurried feet
he seemed deaf now to the shaking clamors 
echoed through endless corridors.

We sat with him for another celebration
hoping he would return from his trance
seeking comfort in the other, we sighed.

He was engaged in an invisible dialogue
incapable of breaking from the moment
I know now he was planning for a long journey.

In the sweet silence of his last domain
I saw him resting a thoughtful mind aglow
upon the shoulder of his eternal friend at last.  
***

Going Home

Pushing onto the womb again until it bleeds
a frail fist asks for the chance to another life

She moans in sounds of incomprehensible confusion
keeping the alien warmth at bay as she can.

It is the final line of a terminal affront
arched back she resists the pleas for clemency.

The fertile land must remain barren once again
soft as the vast ocean, so distant from the snowy peaks.

Bruised knuckles soon will withdraw in defeat
bathed in the red nectar of devastated dreams.

Little eyes wet with the chagrin of his destiny
he slips back into the endless sleep outside his time.  
***

Little Lives

Little lives crawl upon the pane of glass at dusk
forgotten of an ice sheen in winter.

Miniature monsters explore mountains of sand
lost in a sea of luxuriant green.

No thought of tomorrow in those ignorant souls
busy at existing for lack of being.

Sensing a breeze, touching a heat, they go on
and return to a start as to an end.

A symphony of crackles surrounds their feet
under a shower of shady rays.

Soon night will come again beneath a dark cloud
they will ignore the silence of men.

They will continue the endless dialogue of beast
far greater in eternal numbers.

While the rulers of the universe continue to vanish
one by one without much of a sound.
***

Shells

The old tube disintegrated in a fiery blush
through images of decay adorned with stench
so awful cracks formed and the set exploded.

Zombies extended arms of hanging lobes of rottenness
grunting primeval words took what seemed a step
to the six-year-old in a springy dress this Sunday.

Tiger striped to the gill looked sideways at the spectacle
as the albino on two quick limbs traveled to sink its teeth
into another, pale, its face scarred with icy cold veins.

Fascination with the idea of a non-death saving the body
though corrupt in the city where no one sleeps any more
wandering the arteries of a life to a foregone conclusion

Zombies, vampires, tigers and bears, oh my!
there is no possible return to Kansas
all tornadoes have abandoned hope.

Yesterday still the little girl wore a flowery pastel dress
already it fades into a surface flat of monotones
among the remaining shells we used to be.
***


Time for Sale

Surrounded by the note books of his memories
he pondered the fate of the days to come
quiet in the soundless realm of lonely years.

It was another thick night of idle motions
a dimmed lamp and a freshly cut pencil
rested beneath the dust of his hesitations.

The message so many times written, lay there
sleeping gently as an offering to the needy
time for sale, never used, no longer needed.

There was nothing left for him to do
still his body froze in the infinite moment
he dreamed of the gift his hours might me.

A sweet boy devoured by a deathly ill
a grandmother full of passion for needy ones
to them he leaves his useless hours.  
***

To the Dream

Her lips were already alive upon the first hour 
flashing a pleasure common to Leonardo
grasping at the last shape of her nightly glee
with those instruments so gentle to the quill.

Every fiber came to peace with the new day
her little soul procrastinating behind the satin,
putting to memory what had been the fantasy
of the nocturnal adventures to unknown cities.

Ebony waves caressed her pearly features
as she waved hello to a fresh reality 
her entrails trembling in a numbing ecstasy 
biting her lip as if caught in a guilty escapade. 

Almost clear as August skies, her glance
the scene of what she only could treasure
blood racing to nurture an exalted heart
anxious to rush again into the vivid dream. 
***

Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and many other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications.

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