Yellow Mama Archives

Cynthia Ruth Lewis
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First Impressions
 
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

 

 

 

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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