Tuesday, June 28, 2011


           She glides from treasure to treasure—
                        deep emerald capsules,
                                    liquored anise,
                                                flowering poppy,
                                                            Heaven’s Sublime Milk.
Her clawed hand trembles with
            black need—
                        her eyes, radiant
                                    with despair;
Her full, ruby lips parted and cracked.
            She screams
                        a silent, heart
                                    tearing vow;
Plunges the dream quill into the
            pulsating vessel
                        and sighs—as
                                    golden morning
                                                sunshine throbs
Through her aesthetic soul.
            Then, she
                        turns, floating
                                    with Apollo
                                                across the sky,
And closes the door to reality.

Copyright 1976 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

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