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...........................................................................................................................................
The Poetry Of.
...Karen Corcoran Dabkowski


Arielless

Why did she do it?
they always say, furrowing
brows,
making
small mole mouths
tight with
disapproval. Sylvia finally realized
that moonlight couldn't save her: there is no light
with arms





Lyapkalo

I've fallen in love
with a Russian
painter.
His name is impossible, it's Lie-YAP
Callo, I suppose
is the way you'd say it; if I met him, I would hesistate
to say his name out loud, but I think my eyes would speak
and tell him he's found the darkness
and weight
of a female
standing in the nude, the light gone
red maroon in the shadows of heavy breasts, her belly
like a cantalope. I hope
he'd take that as a compliment,
the man who saw the depth
within black eyes,torn berry lips and muscular thighs
that look like they could lift and pinch the world, let
alone one man's
lonely
penis: Lyapkalo,
who paints women
to hide inside and loves their
every inch: he paints the morning sister
seen though the crack of bathroom door
who stands in awesome size, with curves we long to cup,
and paints the shadow
mother, bending over bed in all her skin
to clutch the fever, and we love him for the truth
he daubs where no one else can touch, he touches
lovingly,
with luxury, with longing on his brush,
and it feels like silken tongue, but heavy with paint; colors hammock
with her weight and it feels real.





Things You Don't See Till Too Late

My one eyebrow
has turned
white, the right one: not the one I raise
to show disdain or praise, therefore proving
when a thing
is exercized, allowed to show
surprise, permitted voice- it remains
elastic. Poor
right brow, hoary now and slow, you lacked
expression, were too shy, and now you're
a hag's eye half moon hair, a lesson
there
for those
who care to listen. This is a day
of changes:
this the day I make a hobbled start
to rearrange and center myself- not give out what I have
or am
to those who would not
keep it. Not force myself
on any plate already filled or willing me
gone. I have a white
brow:
time has dealt with my nonsense
pointedly. It's time to pay attention to the things
that mark.



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