Archive for the ‘Anne Champion’ Category


By Anne Champion

She makes her debut at night, smashing
your windows with a paper machete
and a glass chainsaw, punching her fist
through hollow walls, squatting
on your landscape and taking a piss
while she does a few histrionic Hail Marys,
rolling her eyes in mockery at your wishes
and prayers and pleasant dreams. This,
she says, motioning to your entire life,
is all prop. She skips beside you
and giddily flings bags of garbage
across your path like an over-rehearsed
flower girl. Dreams are theatre, but her stench
is real and pervasive; you yearn
for a bath or a baptism. She instructs you
to sit your silly self down for her tap dance
and song. An emerald gemstoned gypsy,
delivering a prophesy: there’s more clouds
in this crystal ball. She dons a mask of his face,
trots around you like a marionette
until you become knotted
in her strings, his strings, his strings, around
she twirls and you know this routine
is all about him, has always been about him,
you can’t escape him. Even when the lights
dim, and you jolt awake, her encore
is the empty spot next to you in bed.
All day you try to forget her final lines
before the curtains of your eyelids lifted:
Hearts have no roots, she sighs,
they flake away, easy as petals.

Read Full Post »