Kay Middleton

Driving Down

a lost highway looking for a pale blind

fish, the only one who can explain loneliness

and longing, the space of the silence

between notes and the empty air

of unasked questions that swills

my lungs and heart in the grieved

moments before twilight. All he

asks in return is that I devote a moment

to word paint the water and define blue.

This is not a dream for I am defeated

by biased pillow. I lie awake as visionless,

restless lovers do, lying in luxurious

bed, on commonplace mattress

or pallet, most beneath woolen

blanket on floor of plank, stone

or trodden dirt. The community

of us staring at ceilings of varying height

and texture, or the most blessed, gazing

at ancient stars of heaven.

All of us open eyed, driving

down a lost highway, our only plan curtailed

by public drunkenness and a lack of maps.

As first published at Voxpoetica 11/22/2011

That’s why.

 I want to look distraught or disinterested

a cigarette angled from the corner

of my red mouth like a soldier relaxing his rifle.

I want to remember the chill I feel as I drop

my shawl and turn shoulder to your camera,

again. My body does not quiver with exposure

nor the distrustful glare in other women’s eyes.

Survivor you see beyond that lens, I will do

what I need. I will change my name to Joan

and you will judge forever. These are the roles cast.

I want to feel the trains vibrate my body enroute

to Chicago, Detroit, New York and Culver City.

Cold cheese sandwiches on mid-western white

bread travels well. When sound comes to the pictures

my sultry voice seduces you to the box office

and I pretend I am a prostitute giving myself

away on the silver screen. I triangle and dance

with daring, dashing men of the day

and pretend to love them all but never stay.

I want to wear the silvery silk turban, crown

for the "Queen of the Movies", bowed shoes,

pencil-arched brows and Adrian-designed gowns,

a dress that flows and folds like the theater

curtain over the stage of my body. A glittering

luminary, the name Joan Crawford lights the night

for nearly half a century from the marquees in every city.

That was before Mommy Dearest changed the angle

of camera and light—shattered Joan forever.

I want to be Lucille Fay LeSeuer.

PUBLISHED Contemporary American Voices 7/1/2011