Cynthia Ruth Lewis

Sometimes I fantasize

about walking around in public

wearing a Halloween mask—

not even a scary one,

but a happy-face, clown-type mask,

sporting brightly-colored, innocent clothing,

my arms dangling harmlessly at my sides

how people would stare

I imagine their shocked faces

as I move through the streets,

their eyes trailing my every move,

pulling their children close to their sides,

ducking behind cars or buildings,

even phoning the police

assuming, of course,

that I’m up to no good

Maybe I’m simply trying to hide

some bruises.

Maybe I’m trying to cheer people up.

Maybe I’m just bored with nothing

better to do

Without the mask, I’m just like them—

poisoned by the headlines;

paranoia-induced by the 6:00 news,

judging people by appearances,

assuming the God-awful worst . . .

and I truly wonder

which one of us

would actually be more frightening

Scabbed and Dangerous

Cynthia Ruth Lewis

Got a scar on my face.

A tiny, knotted-up looking piece

of extra flesh on my cheek.

Had it ever since I can remember

I’ve always hated it.

It’s not humongous,

or even traffic-stopping,

but I hate it, nonetheless

I think I might try to get rid of it

With the tip of an extremely sharp blade,

or a piece of really thin wire

I could try to slice it off,

but then I might not be able

to stop the bleeding

I can just imagine being rushed

to the emergency room

with a blood-soaked towel

crushed to the side of my face,

having to explain, awkwardly,

that I had a little accident while

trying to perform minor plastic surgery

on myself. . . .

and I’d probably get a lecture

from the doctor about self-mutilation,

and I’d most likely need stitches

and a tetanus shot. . . .

Fuck it.

The scar’s really not that bad.

If I wanted to suffer consequences

for my actions,

I’d slice my wrists, instead

INNOCENCE BY A 40-WATT BULB

Cynthia Ruth Lewis

I’m beautiful—

downright angelic if you see me

in the proper light

I’m not fond of neon, bright sun

or fluorescent . . .

those only bring out the insanity in me;

a crazed glare in my eyes

intensified by harsh, overhead lighting,

my pale skin mocked by neon clarity,

alabaster shield luminous in the glaring

enemy light

even my mind is revealed—

dark thoughts sprung free from

the depths of the coldest basement

hanging like blood-stained clothes

on a line for all to see

I’m a lunatic in daylight.

Bright light reveals all:

a wild animal caught in a trap,

eating its own leg to escape the harsh reality

of daybreak

In dim lighting, I’m anything you

want me to be;

by candlelight or a 40-watt bulb

I can charm the pants off you,

this angel with seraphic grin

can take you places that you’ve never been

I’m your demon-eyed angel;

I can turn you on any way you want,

but don’t you dare touch the light switch—

you’ll only bring out

the devil in me

INBORN

Cynthia Ruth Lewis

It’s amazing the things you carry with you

From my father, I received

my dark hair, blue eyes

a strong reaction to wool clothing

and a great big hole inside

that compelled me to sleep

with every man I met

just for the attention and affection

From my mother I got

my fair skin, slender figure

an intolerance for lima beans

and an overwhelming urge

to smash things into oblivion

whenever they got in the way

and even when they didn’t

From my brother I learned

that you can fake a suicide

and have the world handed to you

on a silver platter

especially when there’s really no cause

to even feign a death at all

From my writing I’ve learned

to laugh at myself

accept what I can’t change

and even to forgive my family

for their over-the-borderline behavior

Forgiveness is the easy part.

Forgetting is much harder to shake off—

it’s a goddamn legacy.

It’s in the blood

DILUTED

Cynthia Ruth Lewis

Blinded in the supermarket, walking dumbly through

the aisles, packing my cart high with sustenance; steaks,

breads, cakes, hoping to put some flesh back on your

whittled frame, hoping your sudden plunge in weight

is nothing serious, not the unspoken “C,” certainly,

hoping the tests come back negative, praying your

three-times-a-day loose bowels are due to some strange

kind of flu, thinking I can entice your appetite again with

all this food as I pile the cart higher and higher, until it

is spilling over with hope, adding melons to the mess,

fingers tightening around their wholeness, the sweet

perfection within as I watch children playing, running

from their mother’s shouts, using cucumbers as pistols,

their innocent, ignorant bliss a knife in my ribs, twisting

ever so subtly. I advance numbly to the check-out line,

seeing people laugh amongst themselves, bantering

about recipes, grandchildren and holiday gifts. I am a

foreigner; amiss, not understanding their words and

grins and I’m fighting like hell not to break like glass,

just shatter at their feet when the clerk hands me the

receipt and says “Have a good Christmas,” and I bite

my tongue to keep the tears from coming, biting down

hard until I can taste the blood, and only when I can

escape to the hooded density of my car do I let it go,

the tears running new and hot, diluting the blood,

the salt making it bearable, making it taste just a little

bit better

IMAGES

Cynthia Ruth Lewis

Sitting limply next to me on the front seat,

you still had strength enough to lick my face,

even though I had brought you to a place where

you wouldn’t come back

Loving you more than life, I tried to bolster myself

while slipping the key from the ignition, your one

un-bandaged eye trained weakly on me, awaiting

my touch on your now-gray fur as I sat, pushing

the minutes away, trying to fight another outburst,

finally pulling you roughly from the car to pretend

I didn’t care, not feeling the sun warm on my back

or your tangle of fur soft in my hands, watching

the bandage loosen and fall free, the small patch

of bloody gauze so vivid against the dingy pavement

the only image I remember clearly before taking you

inside to die

“Images.” Collected in Piss on Your Parade, by Cynthia Ruth Lewis.

Cynthia Ruth Lewis has been writing on and off for the past twenty years, only in the past few having become seriously committed to submitting her poems. She can be found in Cherry Bleeds, Underground Voices, Zygote in My Coffee, and other venues. Piss on Your Parade, a collection of her work, can be obtained by emailing bookas6670@yahoo.com.