h o m e........

p a s t   i s s u e s....

s u b m i s s i o n s....

l i n k s

MARY ANN SAMYN

OCTOBERISH

The scent of honeysuckle diagnosed me months ago, and predicted this.

Now, a different season entirely. 

Maybe just one more was my thought about kissing you while you slept.  

Urgency is noisy, sometimes.

Little by little, the next day’s mood was inevitable as geese headed south.

Careful had been my other thought.

The story I caught myself telling myself was loud too, and total bullshit.

Thank God I realized.

Then parallel parked twice.  Beautifully.  On a hard day.  For pride’s sake.

It was a regular afternoon.

On the 5th, I wrote why do you ask?  On the 15th, I won’t soon forget it.

And tonight, a fine blue sky.

Like an old envelope.  Linen, maybe.  Sealed with a waxy initial, and a wish.

Open it, of course.

Some things need to come from someone else’s mouth to make sense.

I learned that.

And learned, too, my limit— speed, everything to me once.

YOU GOT YOUR WISH; I GOT MINE

A cheer goes up.  Then, down, of course.  
Other people deciding what more they want.

I’m no lonelier than I’ve been.  Maybe less.
At church, suffering and ransom, another recap.

“Is that how we do it?” my mother asks,
meaning, as usual, God knows what.

Today’s sun is buttery, is never you mind;
my attention span is shot.  So, bravo, OK?

And just for the record, I made it look effortless.
Behind the scenes was another story.

The photo of this moment would break your heart.
Don’t, not even for one minute, doubt that’s true.

YOU CAN THANK ME LATER

—Or now, suggested November, seductive-like

and strangely warm; I couldn’t get my bearings.

Judging by the prevailing mood, I’m guessing

this weather will continue for some time, 

at least privately.  Privately is best, anyway,

in my experience.  Take this off, take that—

I was wanting some scientific reassurance. 

In the dark woods there are no streets.  

That’s the page I opened to, 3rd edition

readiness for the future, far and near. 

But the man is not lost.  He can find his way.

Sweetheart, the man is not lost.

SPEAKING OF FEROCITY AT SUNSET

 

Some clapped, and what I felt came and went,
an old song, so I sounded like myself,
again, years ago, singing in the basement,
wanting out.  To bide one’s time means 
keep hoping.  I gleaned a lot by pouting, more
by not.  Considered escape mechanisms: 
the river’s is the lake; the lake’s, never-you-mind.
A wind soothes itself, which is not nothing.
Try it, you might like it; I miss you too, but
the point was beauty, briefly put,
the sun the model of leaving, not left.

THE MOON THROUGH A SKYLIGHT

A wing on a shelf, somewhat functional, 
like a lady’s fan, or another era.
And on the underside of each feather, a spine:
yellow like a secret.  
All of it, a leftover altar, not mine.
Mine is all stones, including the one shaped like a heart.
“You’re certain, aren’t you?” someone asked,
though I felt told. 
And later when you dropped the word regards, 
I picked up even that, and added to my little stash.