Poetry: Candice Louisa Daquin

Candice Louisa Daquin
mislaid

she reads my entrails
i can’t hide behind false gaze
she sees me
not the stigmatic view i hold
something penetrating
separating fantastical from
welts and mold.
Under her inspection
i flourish
free of pretense
if she loves what she sees
i must necessarily
trust that
proffered hand
only truth reveals
depth
i spent years fudging
fishing, fooling myself
thinking games of pretend
led beyond brick walls
her eyes take me in
and don’t spit me out
they leave me whole
headed for different
perspective
reshaping scars
new skin beneath
lightening my
mislaid
heart.
***


gaining time

the self will choose immortality
over blinking city in dust bowl
she rides in time to
the flight of her internal loathing
carving pieces of courage to seagulls
as ginger stains in night fall searing, 
sorrowful pink, mindful of songs wrought in lasting preserve
memory a false muse, negligent in her task
she spreads fancy, a table cloth, wet with appeal
and we, soft in principal
take tender, grateful bites
sleeping instead of seeking
as day falls and rises
behind the musk of
indolent what ifs.
***


home

throw light on tableau
stark, our characters form reluctant worms
choosing well-worn path
harder to divine from recoil that bridge
elastic in space like rubber bands
little girls elongate, yearning in fantasy
hopscotched into their roles
white sheet yet stained with after birth
hair brushed back we face ourselves at scarred tables
to be removed from this blister and lance ourselves
matchsticks tindering against time’s low bell
who shall seek cliffs edge, who gentle swell
of rain meeting sea all washed oblique
no beginning in our rinse
this cloud covers nothing but a wish to be
everlasting
knowing our claim will devour
make then, in this needy wrap of night
muscular in her prowl
my opening mouth on yours, searching for equity
we writhe in our need to exist
when those around us weakly cease
some say death brings us closer
sexing in cupboards by the mortuary
sign in, take a seat, cast your clothes
one step removed from beasts our burden
knowing as witnesses we plunder our fear
in earthbound sweat and tears
you break over me, splintering your hunger
we are two children, lost in the spilt comfort of utero
searching for brothers like lighthouses
blushing against whisper of fog
blot in and out, a morse code
decipher my loins slick with damage
rest your aching in my enveloping bondage
tied by the neck to hang like december rabbits
lacking escape
we are the warmth of apple sauce and spices
lost on haunted tongue
fugitives meeting in fear, entwining bloodied fingers
we forge moonshine and defy calculation
all who live must cease in their turn
as knowing we writhe against fate
brandishing longing for one more sip of comfort
laid loving on our brow
before seasons shift like weary walkers
hunched against cold
breaking whiteness of fields in
flushed longing to reach home.
***


rapture

the day is set
clean crockery gleaming like polished milk
laid out in expectant situ
her face burns on the side where they took out her rage
boiled it like wool and knit it back in shape
leaving mouths of cotton to cough out soggy words
against the sharp edges of a defined world
intolerant of soft
she lifts the coffee pot, catching her reflection
three faces for each turn of head
one makes the bed
one undoes the effort
one lies prone
her fingers chilled as if she plunged them
endlessly into ice water and shaking off
tried to revive feeling
 
around the corner
school children
stamp their feet against first frost
wiping their lips of toast
parents already folding day into schedule
young backs weighed with books
soon unread as they eagerly stretch
into indifferent facsimile
 
yet
one remains gazing upward
as reluctant geese, escaped from slaughter
pierce oatmeal sky in honking retreat
are they wondering if one day
they will be sitting at the table
offered the tender cut and refuse
for the sake of those who despite themselves
lift heavy into air and seek freedom
kicking tight patent shoes against marbled wood
we dry our itching mittens on rumbling radiators
dreaming in the steamy hiss of soaked youth
before light is sacked from lantern and all
doors bolted against damask darkness
believing we keep ourselves secured
from those fabled specters
from those familiar songs
held just beneath memory with tin latch
 
crows who know
best route home
fill plunging skies with indigo wings
and for a moment
the trees seem to be lifted
from their roots like
lovers, temporary given over
to rapture.
***

Bio: Candice Louisa Daquin is a Psychotherapist and Editor/Writer. She works as Senior Editor for Indie Blu(e) Publishing, Poetry Editor at The Pine Cone Review and Editorial Partner with BlackBird Press. She's also Writer-in-Residence with Borderless Journal and freelance edits and writes. Her latest collection Tainted by the Same Counterfeit, is due September 2022 (Finishing Line Press).     www.thefeatheredsleep.com

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