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Yellow Mama Archives
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Cynthia Ruth Lewis
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First Impressions
Cynthia Ruth Lewis
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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
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,
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.
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