Miss Ashley (imagine_peace) wrote in sextonpoetry,
Miss Ashley

Some poems I like...


Words For Dr. Y.

What has it come to, Dr. Y.
My needing you?
I work days,
Stuffed into a pine-paneled box.
You work days
With your air conditioner gasping
Like a tube-fed woman.
I move my thin legs into your office
And we work over the cadaver of my soul.
We make a stage set out of my past
And stuff painted puppets into it.
We make a bridge toward my future
And I cry to you: I will be steel!
I will build a steel bridge over my need!
I will build a bomb shelter over my heart!
But my future is a secret.
It is as shy as a mole.

What has it come to
My needing you…
I am the irritating pearl
And you the necessary shell.
You are the twelve faces of the Atlantic
And I am the rowboat. I am the burden.

How dependent, the fox asks?
Why so needy, the snake sings?
It’s this way…
Time after time I fall down into the well
And you dig a tunnel in the dangerous sand,
You take the altar from a church and shore it up.
With your own white hands you dig me out.
You give me hoses so I can breathe.
You make me a skull to hold the worms
Of my brains. You give me hot chocolate
Although I am known to have no belly.
The trees are whores yet you place
Me under them. The Sun is poison
Yet you toss me under it like a rose.
I am out of practice at living.
You are brave as a motorcycle.

What has it come to
That I should defy you?
I would be a copper wire
Without electricity.
I would be a Beacon Hill dowager
Without her hat.
I would be a surgeon
Who cut with his own nails.
I would be a glutton
Who threw away his spoon.
I would be God
Without Jesus to speak for me.

I would be Jesus
Without a cross to prove me.

Jesus Raises Up The Harlot

The harlot squatted
With her hands over her red hair.
She was not looking for customers.
She was in a deep fear.
A delicate body clothed in red,
As red as a smashed fist
And she was bloody as well
For the townspeople were trying
To stone her to death.
Stones came at her like bees to candy
And sweet redheaded harlot that she was
She screamed out, I never, I never.
Rocks flew out of her mouth like pigeons
And Jesus saw this and thought to
Exhume her like a mortician.

Jesus knew that a terrible sickness
Dwelt in the harlot and He could lance it
With His two small thumbs.
He held up His hand and the stones
Dropped to the ground like doughnuts.
Again He held up His hand
And the harlot came and kissed Him.
He lanced her twice. On the spot,
He lanced her twice on each breast,
Pushing His thumbs in until milk ran out,
Those two boils of whoredom.
The harlot followed Jesus around like a puppy
For he raised her up.
Now she forsook her fornications
And became His pet.
His raising her up made her feel
Like a little girl again when she had a father
Who brushed the dirt from her eye.
Indeed, she took hold of herself,
Knowing she owed Jesus her life,
As sure-fire as a trump card.

The Author Of The Jesus Papers Speaks

In my dream
I milked a cow,
the terrible udder
like a great rubber lily
sweated in my fingers
and as I yanked,
waiting for the moon juice,
waiting for the white mother,
blood spurted from it
and covered me with shame.
Then God spoke to me and said:
People say only good things about Christmas.
If they want to say something bad,
they whisper.
So I went to the well and drew a baby
out of the hollow water.
Then God spoke to me and said:
Here. Take this gingerbread lady
and put her in your oven.
When the cow gives blood
and the Christ is born
we must all eat sacrifices.
We must all eat beautiful women.
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