{"id":705,"date":"2010-01-01T23:39:47","date_gmt":"2010-01-02T04:39:47","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/fullofcrow.com\/poetry\/?p=705"},"modified":"2010-01-01T23:39:47","modified_gmt":"2010-01-02T04:39:47","slug":"kasandra-larsen","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.fullofcrow.com\/poetry\/2010\/01\/kasandra-larsen\/","title":{"rendered":"Kasandra Larsen"},"content":{"rendered":"

A CONVERSATION OVER A BOUQUET<\/strong><\/p>\n

Why do you want these? Silly.
\nLilies are fragile and transient. Love
\nis more than a gesture that withers, a sum
\nof stems multiplied by exuberant blooms.<\/p>\n

Listen to you.
\nI know they’re not practical, serious,
\nthat even stolen from a garden they’re just
\na token. But I want them.<\/p>\n

Are they the children you can’t have?<\/p>\n

Perhaps.<\/p>\n

Okay, they turn soft faces to sunlight, spur
\nspontaneous smiles, run wild
\nalong the roadside, beautiful because<\/p>\n

they’re doomed to die.<\/p>\n

Yes. At least their beauty doesn’t lie
\nlike false syllables brought to dark coffins
\nwhile spoken, promises dropped
\nlike hot stones and then broken.<\/p>\n

They’ll only remind you we cycle and splinter.<\/p>\n

That’s just the point of it all. Petals fall.<\/p>\n

DEFENSIVENESS<\/strong><\/p>\n

Too sensitive, never really fashion
\nforward, I made a jacket out of it
\nand wore it everywhere. That piece
\nbecame my signature. Of course
\nit was black. But I added a twist,
\nembroidered the sleeves
\nwith twining ivy the color of envy,
\noutlined the wide lapels with satin
\nthread that matches starlight
\nand adds a dash of hope. Even now
\nI like to wear it when I smoke.<\/p>\n

MEET MY TWIN SISTER<\/strong><\/p>\n

The darker one, in shadow — she
\nwould prefer not to speak, being
\nall body, aching skin, alerted hair,
\naverse to feeling a stitch of clothing
\nanywhere, certain that only tips
\nof fingers trailing down an arm,
\nresting briefly on a cheek, will do.
\nHer lips were made to kiss you. Or<\/p>\n

if she hates you, wishes you dead, she
\nmoves to muscle, becomes kick
\nand shove and stab instead. Either way
\nher dark eyes sparkle, telegraph screams,
\nsatisfied moans. She’ll show you which
\nnext time the three of us are left alone.<\/p>\n


\n<\/strong><\/p>\n

CLOSING YOUR EYES TO SEE BEHIND YOU<\/strong><\/p>\n

The past is anything but solid when it whispers, and the secret words
\nit sends have their own limits. Memory always fails to say more than a syllable
\nthat misses subtle shades, ten thousand colors of confusion that led you<\/p>\n

to this new date. You stand too formally, in black and white, forgetting
\nthe old rules, that there were any, that you pushed against them harder
\nwith the courage that came to a man condemned. Your anxieties,<\/p>\n

collected since, just simmer. Now your mouth is dry, and when outstretched
\nyour left hand shakes. Years that fell as fast as rain left bitter trackmarks
\nin their wake, stale kisses on your cheek. If you could fold the time together,<\/p>\n

get point A to meet point D, the phone would ring and you would recognize
\nher voice saying your name, just like that yesterday you want to label red. But
\nit was turning at the edges even then, thin, scorched like parchment and<\/p>\n

tea-tinted, words in cursive quickly fading. Now you fill them in with ink
\nthat sleep erases, and your pillow in the morning shows a strand of long
\nblack hair. Slipped underneath, a silver ring you think you used to wear.<\/p>\n

Kasandra Larsen\u2019s poetry has appeared in various literary journals, including\u00a0Short Fuse: The Global Anthology of New Fusion Poetry, 100 Poets Against the War, Babylon Burning: 9\/11 Five Years On, and Osprey Journal.<\/strong><\/em> Her work was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2007.
\n<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

A CONVERSATION OVER A BOUQUET Why do you want these? Silly. Lilies are fragile and transient. Love is more than a gesture that withers, a sum of stems multiplied by exuberant blooms. Listen to you. I know they’re not practical, serious, that even stolen from a garden they’re just a token. But I want them. 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