Market Song

Market Song

by Alicia Cole

In the market, a man resides daily in prayer,
his beard unfurling.  The women, their long
hair tied, the napes of their necks gleaming,
whisper he tastes of incense.

None touch him.

Each morning, his body clasps the earth
in an earnest wail.  At night, his frame like
a question born of God waits on the cooling
stones, his body weeping with song.

One watches him.

Stained with wine and trembling, she,
the drunken traveler’s daughter.  Her hands
make small gestures like the falling of birds;
her mouth a tender onion, peels open,

prayer blooming.

Holy men make love with their eyes, never
touching; just so, he watches her, skirts scarlet,
his eyes half-lidded on the curved peach
of her cheek.  Her hand offers itself,

her hollow palm.

When the wind sweeps the market, it carries their
mouths' hunger.  His prayers, eager in the perfumed
air, tremble; the curve of her neck arching like God's
first sunrise.  Her breath, sucking in,

a honeyed wail.

* * *

Alicia Cole lives with a photographer and a bevy of animals. Over their house, egrets and blue herons fly. She has a penchant for birding, blackberries, and walking through brambles. Her poetry and short fiction may be found in Goblin Fruit, Ideomancer, Mythic Delirium, Birkensnake, and Eternal Haunted Summer.  Updates on her work may be found at www.facebook.com/AliciaColewriter.

Where do you get the ideas for your poems?

My poems are birthed from my life and relationships, with a sprinkling of nature-based and spiritual images.  Sometimes this sprinkle is more of a pervasive element.  In "Market Song", it's more the former case: the setting, man-made, not natural, adds flavor while spirituality breathes life into the work.

Among the Angelic Orders

Among the Angelic Orders
by Alicia Cole

In the garden, the angel brandished
a sword, burnished as your mouth
in the dusk; he stood at the gates,
his palm cupping an orange.  Citrus,

sphere peeled back - the order of angels,
concentric circles, migrating layers
of shared space, jute-chords tied, body
of light to flaming light.

In the dark, undressing, a peeling
all its own.  Name the planes: chest,
shoulder, thigh.  Name the kneeling
space sacred.  My hand tied to yours,

ring-bound, bright; holy places
shining between our teeth.

* * *

Alicia Cole, a writer and educator, lives in Lawrenceville, GA, with her photographer husband, their cat Hatshepsut, and two schools of fish. Her poetry may be found or is forthcoming in Asimov's, Strange Horizons, Goblin Fruit, Ideomancer, and Mythic Delirium. She muses on writing and life at three-magpies.livejournal.com.

What inspires you to write and keep writing?

I wrote my first poem in second grade.  I took longer than the rest of the class, so I remember standing in the hall by some windows, the light streaming in while I finished my work.  When I returned, my teacher could not believe I had written such a long poem.

I continue to write in this vein.  To prove myself to myself, and disprove all those doubters who say, "You didn't, you can't."  I most assuredly do and I most assuredly can.