Marlene's Poetry
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Sensational Shopping

Waiting in line for the surly cashier
to finish her bout of sighing and gum-cracking,
my gaze lingers
on a denim clad derrière,
follows the line of brawn

along sinewy thighs and muscular calves
sweeps upward
over strong arms and strapping shoulders
to black curls, glistening springy and damp upon
the collar of a crisp, white shirt.

peculiar sensations, stimulating
and heady as red wine,
leave me stunned,
oblivious to drops of melting ice-cream
dribbling down my frozen arms.

a husky voice, sensuous and low,
stirs remnants of desire 
long since packed away,
unused and forgotten
until today.
Drowned

Frank. Dead at age 8.
Drowned the headstone said.

You never talked about him. Your brother. Older than you by just two years.

At six, would they have told you
that Frank slipped through the ice
one winter afternoon; then miraculously clawed his way up through the same hole, trudged home, icy garments encasing his shivering body?

Did you watch as they rubbed him down,
putting him to bed in the frosty room,
piling high the blankets dragged off the others beds; convinced he would warm up during the night?

Do you remember who found him
next morning
cold and stiff as his half-frozen clothing still hanging
on the line above the kitchen stove?

Do you remember the day they buried him?

Frank
dead at age eight

Drowned.
Sleepless Nights

Photographs packed away at 3 am
after another bout of rifling
through pages alive with memories
of first steps and first love.
Startling reminders
of school days and holidays,
moonlit nights,
lakes and loons
all laid out flat and weighted down with longing.
On Stage

Rehearsal night--the final chance to get it right. Frantic teachers sweating behind makeshift curtains,
mouthing cues to would-be angels with saran wrap wings,
reassuring overstuffed Santas,
ignoring upside-down letters,
wiping noses, shushing giggles, and taking deep, deep breaths.
"Okay, kids, one more time."
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