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................................................................................................ Photo by Holly Northrop:"Polaroid:#257"



The Poetry Of...
Anita Dahlman.....................................................................

tart, no sugar

she chafes at restraint
should parents scold
her brazen exhibit

so casually at ease
regarding her body

what snug triumph
shakes in a ritual
dance of no mistake

circling hips
fingers sliding,
tongue flicking

erotic and arrogant

if she had her way
she would walk
bare-assed

her compromise:
g-strings peeking from
unbuttoned
jeans display
the offer of panties,
"eat me."





Tumbleweed

I am becoming a vagabond,
carrying my life in a sack,
only essential things matter:
paint colors, blank pages,
music and a soft pencil.

Piles of money lost, a careless spree
of careful years, lost to mistakes,
inane purchases in seeking normalcy,
a consideration of being bountiful,
a heroine to rescue strays and lost hopes.

I am becoming free of provisions,
my cupboards empty, my stocks traded,
light enough to carry my home
wherever the uncharted road goes,
there is no itinerary.

My children are unborn, I am mother
instead to orphans, stepchildren
and animals, these especially I will carry
forever, by my side is their home,
all I need is their contentment.

I was born to a mother who thought
herself part gypsy from the Black Sea:
a dark and swarthy grandfather
had his way with a girl in Sweden,
perhaps my rootless ambition started there.

I will carry my home wherever I go,
and I will go, with the music of old
pianos and tambourines in my heart,
tumbling like an overgrown weed
with no destination, but getting somewhere

all the same.





legalities

A cornflower blue sky was a canopy
today for my transgressions.

I was lured into complacent dreams
out back, slouched in an Adirondack
revery, contemplating the expanse of
lawn, bordered by woods and stream.

In doing so, I must be guilty of something:
the pleasure was far too intense.
Somewhere down the lines of my history
I learned to associate the enjoyment of sensual
experience with grave guilt.

Today I allowed my lover to kiss my skin
in full view of neighbors who note my coming
and going. He has not touched me in such
a way for long years, and today he gave me gold.

Yes, I was paid for my pleasure today
by seductive heat.

I was a harlot for Apollo today.

Arrest me.





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