Spanish Moss

She slept against his chest
feeling rather rebellious, somewhat just in fact.
There was no great rush, only
listening to the grinding noise against
the bleeding background of bayou.
Spanish moss hung, swinging from it’s own noose.
Her sort of shining kindness nested
the old fashioned way, cunningly concealed.
She knew this to be a sly riddle.
It wasn’t easy to sleep sitting up
unless you really wanted it.
Huddled the shack, puddled in mattress
he thought all the gulf was beneath him,
sliced with summer sun above.
In one unguarded moment of fear,
nobody looked familiar.
The spark of his ready temper
frantically slashed at her neck.
It seemed in her ears she heard his cries;
the direction of his questioning,
answered with lopsided loopholes.
Porch chimes tinkled their tiny church tune.
Beetles chirped in tall grass that clumped and crept about her dark knees.
He couldn’t hear her naked feet slap along a hard-packed path.
The monotonous voice that rose was flat.
She palmed charms to conjure, melted expensive wax.
A burlap bundle of feathers and bones.
With gypsy quick tapping, rapping a rhythm
upon his heart, a human-tissue tambourine.
Messaging the membranous muscle,
a peculiar pied piper whose fingertips
slowly reduced the rhythm
that set him straight on his way, yes indeedy.
Got him right about that business.

Maryann Hazen is a 38 yr. old mom/wife/full-time student/medical transcriptionist/poet/painter who has recently had the good fortune to be published in the following magazines:The Blind Flier, Issue #14, Creative Ooze, Poetry Issue #4, SNAKESKIN poetry webzine-Issue #27, Womenfolk-A Gathering Place for Women, Poetic Voices Jan 1998, Temporary Exhibition Eight - Maryann Hazen, Sin título, TUA Online and Poetry Magazine.

Email: Maryann Hazen

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