An Anecdote to the Sacredness of Being

Love is wisdom for the people,
a sacred knowledge dispersed.
To say my bones moan indifferent
is absurd.

To write a barren woman off
when her breasts continue to offer
what no man can live without,
one mountain of joy, another of comfort.

To ask ourselves the question,
who am I?  What is my purpose?
Is to place another splinter of glass
into God's already swollen foot.

© 2007 Lisa Zaran

 
Chimera

I've lost the ability to be myself.
I can no longer differentiate
between my want and your will.

Your life has doubled in size,
my soul.  Your existence
drapes my spirit in an architectual

design I can not explain.
Every essential part of me
has been galvanized.

I am encrusted inside of you.
I have no life of my own.
My stimulus is your productivity,

your spoken word, your halted
breath.  If the choice was ever
mine again, how could I decide

between us.  You are who I am.


© 2007 Lisa Zaran

A Genuine Want

Everything has been written.
There's no originality left
in how I feel.  My thoughts
have been fleshed out
beyond the scope of reason.
My secrets spin in a vortex
of their own blood and ash.
What is left to reveal?
Optimism betrays me
the moment I touch it.
Love only prolongs the querulous
nature of my right hand.
And yet, I still write of you,
about and for you.
In celebration, in exultation,
my words burst forth on the page,
my whole heart shakes like jelly
in its cage.  I have nothing new
to offer, no delightful foreign
language to place in your
glorious ear.  I'd kill for
new words.  I'd commit murder
for a sentence so razor sharp
and witty, it would cut off my tongue.
I'm willing to give up speech entirely,
disgorge myself of poetry,
to ignite an immaculate illusion
in your impeccable brain.

© 2007 Lisa Zaran

Clandestine Affair

The lily white verses you sing,
the flesh-toned words that swim
into my visceral ear,
the hand clap of my senses
whenever I hear your chronicles.

Imagine the deprivation I feel
knowing your deepest thoughts,
and yet, when I try to touch
what I know, I have nothing
to impress.

The blood and thunder
of my want, the loathing of
my own desire, my erroneous
guilty pleasure at loving
a man I can not assort.

What I know, I can not name.

© 2007 Lisa Zaran  

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