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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Setu, April 2022