Friday, 14 March 2014


I said through clenched teeth, "Will it fit my finger?" An unconscious notion;one tthat brought further rot to my soul. All this, whispered by the captain's wheel under a murderer's moon. Night, 1972, and the sailors lamented, "Where is the anchor?" But I knew and felt faint as we drifted--drifted like a fig leaf cast on the vast seas. We were not at peace. I whispered and dreamed of a horse and carriage in Central Park. I said to my lover, " Who will help me sew this blouse?" as he carelessly unbuttoned me down to my chemise. As the waves pounded the deck, I raged to the wind, " Why do you worship this piece of war?" My finger barely fit the gun's trigger. I looked the barrel in the eye, crying, " Who unearthed this  flash  of metal? Who could praise your gunpowder? You would be better off melted down into an iron on the kitchen table. Press the soldier's uniform! I am no longer your war-monger." I can no longer procrastinate. Only the moon saw me slip over the side into the briny summer of love.

The copyright of this post belongs to Claudia Anne

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