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The
Story Of Rosaline Whatever
happened to fair Rosaline? A would-be lover became distracted by a different pilgrim’s hands at
a masquerade ball under the guise of love. Once the object of a supposed tyrannous, rough
affection, the named cause of one heart’s chaos, Rosaline played coy as was her duty as a porcelain maiden, Scoffing
glances and ignoring winks though she did hear a young suitor’s heart beating
furiously for her. True, she did have Dian’s wit, But also true that Cupid’s arrow had
pierced her right through, too. Should have been at that fair assembly of masks and magic
where they could have met. Dressed in wings of silk and a mask of gold, in flowing gown and pearl-buttoned
corset, Green eyes jewels, hair a cascade of ebony rings, lips a simple pink rose and hands
dainty, Rosaline danced from corner to corner, weaved between jokers and kings, Curtsied
to clowns and bowed to senators, all in search of he who surely sought her. When the last mask left and final
confetti fell, Rosaline found only herself on the grand stairs, Newly cast as an old desire in
a never-lover's death-bed. And while two new lovers frolicked in the night, hiding behind hill,
tree, and wall, Fair Rosaline, forlorn, tore off her wings and corset. And while two new lovers
tore away from each other, Fair Rosaline, forlorn, fell into a teary pillow. And while an old family
feud thickened, deepened, turned to jealous murder and strife, Fair Rosaline, forlorn, sank into
soft satin comfort. Fortune continued to make fools of not just the young lover, but of everyone the
young one touched. The friar turned false to his religious oaths, abetted the secretive plan to elope. Poison
permeated and possessed blood and air while Rosaline, so fair, began to reclaim her body and heart,
seeing self-worth, cleaning old wounds from a now broken shaft. And while two star
crossed lovers lay dead upon one another, Fair Rosaline, reborn, walked out of her chamber, into a
new morn. ********************************** The
Chocolate Monkey Incident (About a Guy I Did Not Date) I slid across the bench seat of the cab back to her car Across
town from where we’d walked when we thought It was closer and warmer, right after he kissed me quickly Goodbye
with lips separated but mouths still closed As if we had been kissing goodbye for at least two years Of
being a couple together, After he had walked us back from the friend’s one bedroom After we had said it
was time to go right after we had touched In the friend’s kitchen, lips first, mouths open Hands
on backs of heads, fingers under hats tipped back, Sweaters heating up under breasts and armpits, nostrils Flared
with heavy wet breath, elbows hitting chairs, Shins hitting each other in a stumble against walls, Back
pressed to the table top, then his pressed against A broken refrigerator door, After I had thrown
out my gum Right after it had lost flavor and grew hard After drinking the glass of tap water that hinted
at chlorine, Sodium, mercury, and ether, After drinking two glasses of sweet lime liquid laced with
cherries, After we had heard him play jazz, play blues, play the song About the woman with a ticket on a
train but when he sang it It sounded like the woman had a chicken And wasn’t sure what to do with
it After he had picked up his guitar After he had jittered around behind me Right after I had touched
his stomach After we had walked over to greet his friends After having seen him up close for the first time Instead
of across a hill or room After he had kissed my cheek to say hello As if we’ve really known each
other after all these years. ************************************************************* Last Day of Vacation The sun rises In a Dominican minute Staining
the sky scarlet to Lavendar-blue inch by Inch behind a palm tree Jealous green That
moves left to right Almost stopped upright. *************************************** ************************************ Get --“If you don’t
expect too much from me, you might not be let down.” Gin Blossoms “Hey Jealousy What
more could a girl ask for? What more could a rock star give? A bus, a ride, a bottle,
a ball, a shot, a bullet,
a breath,
a lyric, a rhythm,
a story to misremember
years later, no matter
the outcome. Yet the details do matter, to her. It’s all in the
storytelling: not just the bus,
but the tire changes and fuel, not just the lyric
but the yellow pad where they were first
scribbled and scratched out. Really, all she wants is
to be filled by his stage presence,
her hands clasped beneath her chin
against her neck, eyes closed,
mouthing the words back,
and the split second he catches her doing it. Sometimes, though, he
forgets to look. Christina M. Rau
Support your local poets! http://poetsinnassau.blogspot.com http://www.myspace.com/poetsinnassau http://www.facebook.com/poetsinnassau (Click on groups) |
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