Summer is here, and things are heating up! Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario, is hosting the Summer Lights Festival, “a night of exploration and discovery in Uptown Waterloo and Downtown Kitchener”. The festival runs from 9PM-2AM on Saturday, June 21, 2014…take a nap so that you can stay up late! I will be performing at the SLF Lounge, on the Yuk Yuk’s stage, in the Walper Hotel, at 10:30PM – 11:00PM. Rumour that the theme is all sexy and burlesque-y (it’s a word now!), and so I shall be performing some of the erotic poetry that I don’t normally get to “whip out” in public (see what I did there? Huh? Huh? Yeah, you saw.). I’ve been working on a new poem in honour of the event which will either be epically amazing or epically awful…but either way, it’s going to be epic, and you don’t want to miss it!
Oh, and did I mention….the show is being hosted by Miss Drew – none other than K-W’s most famous female impersonator. The only time *I* wear high heels is when I am flat on my back – that lady can do spiffy things like dance!
This is an approximation of an erotic photograph of me. Meow! 😉
“I don’t know what I want”, I always say,
But it’s really a lie
Because I know exactly what I want.
I want to know the secret of some girls’ collarbones,
How they are delicate like the wings of birds
And have hollows where you can drink spring water and float daisies,
While I clunk around like a soup bone in a dented, old stock pot:
Fleshy, stringy, juicy, tough.
I want to know what it is like to step with graceful, long legs,
To carry only polished stones beneath my tongue,
And to stretch myself wide across the horizon,
Before flying away with the sun warm on my face.
I want to know why my body has a biological imperative to survive,
When waking in the morning feels like a hammer blow to the teeth,
And I can only get through the night cradled by booze and cigarettes.
If every breath feels like it should be my last,
Why do my lungs insist on sucking in more air?
Stuck on a rubber raft, shipwrecked and floating somewhere out in the middle of my thirties,
I spend my days peeling off the dead skin from my sunburn,
And waiting for either sharks to eat me or a cruise liner to rescue me.
My money has always been on the sharks.
I want you to write me a poem in pen,
For the words that have been caught in your throat
To be committed to paper with the kind of urgency
Found in burning newsprint caught in a chimney’s updraft.
Send me your ashes and sparks in an envelope that leaves my mailbox charred.
I want to run my fingertips along the crooked lines you scrawled with such purpose that they left phrases inscribed on other pages.
I want to read the Braille of everything left unspoken between us.
All of this is really hard to say to someone
Who probably sleeps soundly
Contoured as a question mark
On a mattress that smells like daisies and spring water
Wrapped in the wings
Of delicate birds.
And yet –
I know what I want.
This work, “A Poem In Pen” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.