Poetry Suite by Marla Mottram
“Your dress has been pulled
upward,
inside out.
You are beheaded
by folds of fabric.”
Poetry by Marla Mottram
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There is a flower waiting to bloom inside your ribcage.
Instead of pelvic bone there will be locusts.
+ + +
Decay takes time;
pushed through a hole
like steam, it howls, pants, screams.
It stinks like curdled milk, skunked love.
The rot is fertile, the soil ripe.
Poppies press through gaps between ribs.
A fox shuffles through the growth.
The fox is red. Its eyes are yellow.
+ + +
Mommy was smaller than the poppy
she held onto.
She knew she could never be tall enough
to see past it
so she painted her lips red
and parted them
slowly
to imitate the soft bloom
of petals unfurling
revealing all tomorrow’s
black seeds.
+ + +
A giant dandelion burst from her belly
and carried her into the sky.
She floated from place to place,
propelled by her
hot air balloon
silver bullet
wild white need.
Someone else had a wish.
He blew on the dandelion. Seeds scattered in the wind.
Then she outweighed her want
and fell back to earth.
Now they are a couple
of smudged faces
holding hands
in the woods.
The woods are blue
the flowers are white
and it is difficult to tell
what lies behind them
and what hovers ahead.
She might be facing
in the opposite direction.
He might have a hat
atop his head.
Nothing is
quite clear
from this distance.
+ + +
And what costume shall the poor girl wear
to all tomorrow’s parties?
A hand-me-down dress from who-knows-where,
a blackened shroud of rags and silks.
Where will she go and what will she do
when midnight comes around?
+ + +
The dress you wear
attracts wolves.
It is a cut lip
color of want
dead red.
The wolf is white
like milk or mists
moving through trees.
You can see it coming
but are still surprised.
At midnight
a bowl of belladonna, bloodroot, wolfsbane.
At midnight
a bowl empty
and lipstick-smeared.
You pace.
One is never quite ready
to be
devoured.
+ + +
One half blood
the other milk.
Let them mix
on their own.
Don’t shake.
Blood so thick
it is black.
Milk white
as a blood-drained face.
Nothing is
black and white.
Nothing is
blood poured into a bowl
of milk.
+ + +
You levitate,
naked body hung,
white fish from a hook.
The Hanged Woman.
Your dress has been pulled
upward,
inside out.
You are beheaded
by folds of fabric.
You seem to have too many arms.
Your body makes a new face:
unblinking nipples.
Black V grin.
+ + +
Don your winter
clothes:
Laying in a field
under a wolf
the world stops
spinning.
Laying in a field
under a wolf
the world
the world
the world
+ + +
These days Mommy sits on a pond-rock, not facing
her reflection. Her redundant dress
shimmers
among woods no one can walk through.
The pond-image is not a perfect likeness.
The trees are darker in reverse, her face less
human. The red of her dress spreads to the edge
of the pond.
+ + +
In the photograph two children hug a stiff red fox.
The fox is red in theory.
The photograph is black and white, its edges crisp.
Their eyes are closed, their faces smooth as milk.
From this distance it’s difficult to tell
which one is dead.
A very nice gentleman steps out of the photograph.
He wears a bow tie
and carries a stuffed wolf in his arms.
Sequoias line his path, ancient sentries.
He is in no hurry.
He is not leaving.
He is looking at you.
He says,
“A blackened barn
crumbles
ruined
by time.
Poppies reach
toward the shadow
of its demise.
We are all of us
reaching
for something.”
You take a new picture.
Two foxes.
One red, one black and white.
They overlap.
It's not so hard to hold two things
at once.
“Stay”, he says.
“Stay for the ending.
Stay for dandelion
fox-eye
golden tress.”
A second look.
Not a stuffed wolf, stiff and still,
but a wolf satisfied.
A wolf that’s had its fill.
+ + +
There is no safety to be had
in wolves.
There is no safety.
The hills still whisper winter's rumor,
a grey that won't wash out.
She is no longer scared to remain
motionless
and swallow the sun.
She waits by a garden
of discarded antlers
that all reach skyward
as if still attached
to caribou.
The antlers are white
and do not move.
Unnecessary bones
overgrown with brambles.
Bowls balance atop thorns.
Bowls of dandelion brine.
A fox lurks, unsure
what to make of her.
The answer has something to do
with her yellow hair casting shadows
on her face, billowing
among gray slant
mountains
and barren
ground.
+ + +
When your shoulders are white and skeletal, and the future folds
around your face like an execution bag--
look behind you: red bloom branches
grow backward.
Tonight we feast.
When your hands wilt with wanting, and no hate-boiled water is hot enough
to quell the ache in your bones--
look behind you: blood milk thickens
the plot.
Tonight we feast.
When your lips pucker with the brack of pickled longing, and rubbing salt
on the cut stings but does not satisfy--
look behind you: the shadows grow long.
Tonight we feast.
Drape yourself in a blanket
of wounds.
Pick the scabs. Unclot.
Bloom of the poppy, the past unpearls: cinder, cinder, cinder.
Your miseries, one by one:
your garbled eyes and empty hands
your black need biting every tongue you try to confess with
greed born of your mother’s wild white want
the seeds
the seeds
the blackened, burdensome impulse
to consume.
This bloom gives off a smell.
This bloom is raw meat.
The wolves press in.
Unfurl. Let them begin.
+ + +
Header image courtesy of Hyuro. To view a gallery of her street art, go here.
Darla Mottram is a student at Marylhurst University. Her poems have recently been featured in Elohi Gadugi Journal and Eunoia Review. She is a co-founder of the social art project Put-Pockets, a blog that documents creative ways of putting poetry out into the world. More of her work can be found on her personal blog, here.