Three poems by Suzanne White

Solstice




                                                         on the other
side of the world
                                                         the moon
bleeds for the sun
                                                         clinking of
auburn ale in your hands
                                                         can be heard
in andalusian dreams


winter sucks all sagaciousness
and the will to take a shower

strands of hair in the sink
on my shoulders

hangs the grime of miscarriages
and the pen is spent, tired

of writing dark, stuck
next to placenta, swollen

bitter wine winds
through the valley of the archbishop

who walks the twisted vines once a year
when the sun sweeps low

trying to drink the earth
with fire-frigid lips.  It's useless. 

==========+++++++++

Fishes

My fingers tangent to different
countries, and my face is painted on
red rocks by Martians. They have no form.

My Achilles is a clam,
and thighs ice-cream.
The screams of hell
are tattooed on my back.

I piss sugar in your star-coffee.
I limp down the cobblestones
of Los Angeles, knocking
on every door
gifting pamphlets
on the sacred doctrine of
pamphlet-making.

I'm a fanatic with a sharpie.

My feet tread the heads of the innocent
buried beneath black water

Can you forgive me?

I am plugged into the river, a hook
in a transparent lip.

==================

Between Syllables

I pay a visit to the oracle
in the barrio of our perpetual lifeguard.
He tells me that
when the urge to write is bleak
and no freak is found in syllables, squatting,
then you must let it spew.
Like that mythical girl-
orgasm, I think,
just as easy as that.

But, hey, oracle,
I say.
Who dreamed you, figment?
Anyway,
as much as I'd like to rain
on my lover's face, water
is only poetry
when you least expect it
and it's too bad
all the jargon and jabón
that foams on the tips
of our cerebral vessels-
so stale, so
overstayed.

Show me your hyper-developed
third eye, then.
Write me a guide to knee-
bringing. Paint me
a nun masturbating her sadness
like a rosary

and tell me, shifter,
why you look so familiar.


Author bio:

Suzanne is an American living in Southern Spain. Her poetry has appeared in a few print and e-zines such as Iodine Poetry Journal, The Legendary, The Catalonian Review, and Breadcrumb Scabs. She teaches English from her home where she lives with her young daughter.