EVA R. MARIENCHILD

--------

OPEN HOUSE

There are,
in my home,
towering
pewter lamps
with 150 Watt
capacity.

They
exude a
bold
incense:
a burnished
self-containment;
a Soldier's
readiness.

On the shelf,
a crusty, crimson rose--
semi-crushed.

Ashes of a perfect petal.

An
unstopped glass jar--
a scented
vanilla cream
candle--
emits
a heady fragrance.

Ode
to the
rites of spring.

A
multicolored
tablecloth
--made in India--
inflames my
bountiful, impassive
kitchen.

A cocoon made
incendiary.

The hot-pink
futon
bore the brunt of
scalding moves
set to Salsa music
so combustible
they self-imploded.

On the walls
are
torrid fingerprints--
mute indentations.

There is a fiery hair
on the bare bamboo floor.

Coiled permutation
of my life.

--------

REDOLENCE

Evening:
towering
pewter lamps
placed stolidly,
strategically--
remind
me of
me.

One-hundred-fifty
Watt-capacity.

The conductivity
of energy
harbors
an overabundance
of exuberance.

Like a bold
incense of
oft-burnished
self-containment;
a Soldier's
brooding readiness.

On the shelf,
a crusty, crimson rose
-- semi-crushed.

Like me, also.

Ashes of a perfect petal.

I
unstop a glass jar
-- scented vanilla cream --
that supplies a steady stream
of heady fragrance.

I breathe in
and exhale
an Ode
to the heat and
possibilities
of summer.

I twirl
the edges
of a multicolored
tablecloth
that inflames
my bountiful, redolent
mindset.

A cocoon made
incendiary.

The hot-pink futon
that bore the brunt
of cascading moves
set to Salsa music
has been
blessed with visions
of new couples wresting
the truth from each
other‘s mouths
and wombs.

On the walls
are torrid fingerprints
-- mute indiscretions;
an irreducible passion
rendered reproducible.

A curl of fiery hair
on the bare bamboo floor
surrenders details
like a blueprint.

Coiled permutation
of a life
that has been
enriched and shall
have a
morning.

--------

BLESSINGS

Brocaded shades
block out the
sun's sinking rays.

The dense
darkness
does not
diminish
the translucence
of my soul.

I
exude
an aromatic
faith,
like a bold incense.

On the shelf,
a dried petal.
perfectly formed,
demonstrates that
a rose is still a rose,
in all His glory.

It started
when I unstopped
a scented
candle
and
suspended disbelief.

I ceased fixating
on the facets
of the cut crystal
and remembered
how to breathe.

As I pass a simple,
multicultural
weave before
my eyes
it puts me
in a trance
of open-heartedness

My fingers
trace the
raised surfaces,
lovingly.

It is at night,
especially,
that I seek the
Braille of love
deep in my heart.

--------

THE HIGHWAYWOMAN

At Shooter’s Hill, I
stopped your stagecoach
dressed like a man.

You reigned in your stallions
but not your surprise.

When I dispensed with
my three-point-hat,
the tumult of hair confused you

You know me, but not this way.

I am a polite robber.
My demands are made with civility.

Have I not left your treasure chest untouched?
Such restraint, when there is much to delight the eye.

I plunder currency,
but my manners mark me as gentry.

‘Ere we part,
I would see that your man's purse
contains enough coins
to buy your dinner.

Did you see the ballad seller?
Only two pence. Words
touch a woman's heart.

Here, I'll steal from you and buy
them myself.

You lay a finger on my throat?
Nay, Sir,
You do not know with whom you deal.

You press your fondest wishes against me?

Such exertions generate sweat
but my triumph, borne on wings
of crying doves, is sweet.

Come, let us end the pretense.

The sword I brandish is
fashioned from the wonder
of womanly wiles

And the image of me carrying it
Is serrated into your
subconscious.

Adroit defeat.

Say my name!

Pirates believe in equity
Females pilfer by
giving what they love.

It’s a duel to the finish.

The one left watching the other go,
eyes moistened
by alacrity,
wins.