air and ink

at noon today i feel like Neruda

when he happened to be tired

of being a man

only i am a woman

and surely that

is an altogether different kind of tired

still

i think he'd understand

 

and i don't want to spend my life

frog-like,

perched,

gasping

on the lily

of a few bright days

 

tell me,

where are the hunters

and the gatherers?

where is the sweet reward of humanity

amid these gray cubicles

and this sanitary stink?

and how do the writers live

their sacred lives

on air and ink?

Anne Deredita

this much is true

that i have long admired and feared

the frank way

the praying mantis

destroys her love

the way that she knows that sex

is a prelude

to disappointments.

 

and now that scientists have found

it's not the sex at all,

but rather the bright,

unmitigated light

unmasking her most tender hour.

and, that so exposed,

she cannibalizes boldly,

is proof of some magnificent confidence,

something cruel and everlasting.

 

yet, i can't help wondering,

in all the brilliance,

when the mandibles have ceased

their manic, unstoppable crunching

and a headless lover lies

stiff and green

at her feet,

does she despair her savagery,

regret her brashness?

is she sorry or relieved?

Anne Deredita