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Dee Sunshine

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Member Since: Jul, 2003

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Containment
by Dee Sunshine

Monday, July 14, 2003

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Recent poems by Dee Sunshine
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           >> View all 46

This wine, although expensive and fine, is not the blood of Christ.









CONTAINMENT


A fake tan, you smile and talk of double glazing,
Gesticulating carelessly,
Rose wine perilously swirling in cut crystal:
Aching to be absorbed,
To be at one with the thick pile
Of the carpet softly underfoot.

Teetering on the reckless brink,
Your hand sweeps
A landscape of crushed velvet,
Stripped pine and stone glazed porcelain.
The wallpaper shudders
And a forest of tiny fluted flowers
Flutter in a soft focussed haze of prosperity.

The Chanel No.5 does not hide your animal smell:
I sniff your tail and follow a trail
Back through the dank undergrowth
And under the arc of a tarnished moon.
I sense, in my wolverine soul,
You are not content in your containment.

We exchange polite small talk
And appropriate pleasantries,
Following the well-trodden path
Of dinner party etiquette:
But our eyes are treacherous holes,
Revealing the dark depths of our souls
And you cannot help but know
That I know you’ve seen
The shadows of lone beasts
Stalking your manicured lawn.

We clink our glasses and laugh
In the shallows of drunken night,
Making believe
Our contrivances have foundation:
That these car keys, this room, these people
Are not a construct, not a fabrication;
And yet, the sweet curve of your neck
In this soft yellow argon glow
Calls out to be kissed
And my lips quiver
With electrical anticipation.



In the space that lies between us
There is a high tension wire
That neither of us dares traverse:
It is forbidden to call upon the wind
In this suburban dystopia,
Even though your lips are raw
Underneath the smooth gloss
Of whalefat and pigment.

You are a vision in peach pink,
Salmon and mother of pearl:
You are perfectly contained,
Confident that the demons of the night
Cannot be unleashed -
For this wine, although expensive and fine,
Is not the blood of Christ
And these cigarettes,
Though the last word in elegance,
Burn down without fire.

And yet, still I ache:
I ache in my animal soul
To wipe away the unguents and creams,
To take you naked and strong,
To run wild as white water
Through the foothills of your dreams,
Howling to the mountains and the moon,
Howling to your scream.

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