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separate voices

Disparate conceptions
converge upon the altar of fire.
Red tears, choked into submission,
drown her appetite.
Evinced only in the emerging
pink kohl shading her eyes.

The sting is slumber inducing.
The mind forces focus
yet yearns for sublime silence.
Fermented grapes do their best
to numb and digress.

Warming, consoling, she fumbles
with myriad choices.
The menu stares back, blankly:
What to choose?  What to choose?
"Are you ready", they ask,
"Not yet, I need more time".

They hover like incessant bees
and I, the Queen, stuck in honey,
pray for flight
on this strange night ...



© 2000 Dianne Monnier. All rights reserved.