I alter my dreams, little by little —
As I change my visage, one tragedy to the next —
I’ve outgrown Emily’s floral deaths,
I’ve outgrown Sylvia’s aches —
(maybe not completely) and
I left Courtney with Rupi in the attic
Somewhere between tiny mittens and
Kneepads from the time I wanted to skate.
Now I don’t want a Sue,
And I’ve never wanted a Ted —
I don’t want to fit in and share
The same thoughts and poems as
Just about everybody else.
The masks are starting to wear off,
(metaphorical ones, don’t worry)
They are what seems
like seconds from fusing,
All tragedies and comedies sicken me now.
A final face, a whole woman —
I alter my dreams for her.
A dark and dusty winter eve,
A girl lounges behind the screen.
Pins in her hair, wide-eyed and keen,
She saw it all, raven-haired Coleen.
In a study, by the fire,
She leans in her seat, pulling a barrette,
fascinated by the warped mind of Colette,
like a soaring hawk, the maiden…
“if there was something derogatory about calling someone a Siren, I would undoubtedly refer to you as one”
A cross between a siren, a shapeshifter and Aphrodite. She looks into you, what you yearn to see, then she becomes it; and it is that form she uses to sing. …