CLEA ALLINGTON

Clea Allington (Seattle, WA) has work appearing in the anthology
In Our Own Words. Publication credits include Niederngasse, Some Words, and
Scapegoat Magazine.

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PIECE OF MEAT

It was a chemical imbalance, they said,

The society that drove her mad

With blue lightning; salt in the veins.

And somehow she survived their dark

Like a star burning brightest at its death.

Seems they've collected enough evidence

To prove that what I have written

Is a matter of substance gone wrong in my head.

It is only a matter of time now.

This desire to correlate a cold razor

With a warm bath, why, it's cured by icepicks

In the brain. This desire to destroy a life?

This is the missing chromosome.

I have hoped all my life for Orion,

For that lion-hearted, godly star

To save and to ensare me in the sky.

To prove to them that we are all star-stuff.

This poem, this mild repercussion

Of staying out too late and bad diet,

Will not be Kafka's axe. It will not wake them up.

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VENUS IS BORN IN THE 80S

So now you've decided on Venus

In bubble-wrap, a Gothic Death

Goddess for the twentieth century.

The brassy red-orange hair,

The shell pink lips and tatters

Of black and red tape. Don't forget

The militant black leather boots.

The fire of your gaze averted;

Looking down upon the floor

Of the stage as though it were

Your temple. I imagine you

In ancient Babylon, a diva

Of those people in whose gardens

A homesick queen was reminded

Of Medea. Timothy, deceived,

Told us all that some men

Could captivate weak women

Weighted down with sins,

And lead them on by impulse.

Your subtle eyes, just glimpsed

Beneath the lashes' fringe,

Almost beg to differ...

Who is it must do the leading?