Scilla found her head over the dress,
not the original — battered, discarded —
one eye juttering… too much stress.
Plop onto her mannequin neck bone,
skin color doesn’t match, you see.
Can’t have it all as a dollyhead clone.
Joan of Arc sleeves, celebate knot
at the waist — calls for alteration.
Wonder… is chastity something that’s caught?
Scilla found her head and her call.
Scilla found purpose in a monastic robe.
Scilla found herself surprising them all.
* * *
Actual image for The Sunday Muse #170:
The soul is sucked dry!” she cried.
“But who needs a soul in the city?”
She looks out from “a place… dry
and dusty*.” Ironically, the 15th floor.
She has been away from her home
so long that the city is integrated
with her being, her thoughts. City-
molded, but not city-fed. It feeds
upon those who stay this long —
eyes stop investigating, brains
stop reflecting, chips swallow
braincells — a uniform diversity
has absorbed her originality.
The last time she left, went home,
she had forgotten the language.
Warmth, welcome and humanity
had driven her back to the hub,
the tower. Steel, concrete, glass.
Traffic, litter, loneliness… safety.
What once was discordance,
grate, jar, screech, is lullaby —
the hum of humanity’s machine.
* – Juan Ramón Jiménez, “Author’s Club”
* * *
Green is the grasshopper
on the sidewalk; green sidewalker,
flighty hopper, green walk signal.
Hopping mud dauber;
daubing mudder, another mudder,
a load of mud daub bobbing by.
Butter yellow butterfly; butter
flying wafting by — wafting
butter as I pass I spy.
Alliterative litter of little
bitter butter mudder hoppers
green and yellow — Oregon’s colors!
No ducks or beavers, though.
Beware! Again I say, Beware!
Not the teeth; my teeth are not set
And fear not to look into my eyes,
for I always glance askance. Shy
My muscle, sinew, and tendon
are not that alone which will bring
I am alone. I run with no pack.
A sickness has separated me;
a disease most deadly —
not of my body…
of my wolf spirit.
* * *
For The Sunday Muse.