last night an older gentleman chained me to a bed
with pet-store paraphernalia
in a posh drive-in hotel
the light was harsh and yellow
my body felt frail,
splotched sick and unearthly:
the mad princess trailing along hotel hallways
I let him mold my body like barbie and bathe me in half frozen water
to firm my nipples for the camera
everywoman I thought as he pulled the leather taut around my wrists
he told me to say green frog
everywoman I wondered what the hell I was doing here
chained to a bed in a posh hotel by a man I hardly knew
everywoman I would have laughed from some bruised place in my belly
as like some white-trash metamorphoses I
was replaced by kinky b-movie clichés
his gentle psycho face so earnest
like an overgrown child reaching for ice cream mountains
as he wished my pussy could be wet
it almost moved me
I let him feed me evian from a squeeze bottle
and lead me shackled into the hospital-smelling bathroom,
chaining me to the flimsy shower curtain,
snapping overexposed photos of my goosebumps
the beer in my blood washed through my thighs I could feel the trickle of my
period waiting deep in my belly, the swelling of the rounded moon reflected there
from the towering window, crashing rain sang a fall midnight call, thunder echoed
against the walls of the sky I closed my eyes writhing under cold lens
like a microscope creature death pangs under eye of cold light
I closed my eyes
because I was the virgin in the temple
I was the ascended hooker
in the tall hotel window
shielded with the mark of my taboo
like a blood tattoo
I was the girl
who didn't get away
and when the thunder came, it caught
like naked chains, the clicks of his camera
rolling backwards orgasms in the vacuum spaces
splaying me, sad frog princess
into the world of object
Wonder if you are still there?
I search with only memory for a map.
First, east from artsy Mendocino
looking for a little lake road,
steeply climbing into a dreamscape
abruptly abandoning hardtop's
established certainty
as if a stone destined by gravity down
and down a gravelly recollection
dragging behind a train of dust
around stagnant lily ponds
past meadowed clearings
amidst the thickening trees
and peeks of creeks
still trickling in mid-summer,
giving up hope
until the bend.
There you are, still a
dark and darkly beautiful
child of redwoods. Standing still
a specter from a misty tale told by heart
of beating drum, a Lodge tangible
only to folk of a certain destiny
in mountains as simple
as ah
where fog is an unbreakable habit
called in each summer evening
by a sea that hates dry inland heat
to cool the peaks
and wipe clean the canyons
leaving silence and fragrance
of Laurel Bay and damp ferms
eager to sleep until noon.
There you are! You still carry yourself
stoutly as rafters an beams,
your eyes like small windows
reveal as much as they hide
and your heart like a fireplace
big enough for three bears.
Breathe in! This could be a time before time
or just another time
watched over by hawks and peregrines,
at thefar end of the coastal California canyon
carved out by an infinitely patient
creek sheltering rainbows and steelheads
and cobbled with countless small stones.
The waters keep their music
hushed so I can hear
our years-ago whispers on the wind.
