"The Mist"

Stepping outside,     

I paused and raised my face to the mist.   

Her cold hands slapped my cheeks crimson,     

making me gasp in surprise.   

I hunkered down my shoulders,   

drawing the collar of my coat tighter to fight off the unexpected chill.   

The predawn sky hung heavy with haze that whispered into my ear,     

“Go back to bed.”   

The street lay in waiting silence with its lights haloed weak and pale.   

The fog muffled my steps as I crossed the slick sidewalk.   

She entranced me with her ebbing dance as I inhaled her essence.    

She engulfed me with her silken touch as I stepped deeper into her embrace.   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Tone of Voice"

I’m okay, fine   

she whispers without eye contact   

I’ve got it handled   

Don’t worry   

He misses the hollowness of her words   

overlooks her subtle cues—   

her Woman Speak   

She tucks her feet onto the couch,   

pulls herself into a tight ball under a red throw   

stares at the television without seeing   

sighing deeply    

Oblivious, he flips the channel     

to his station   

assuming—   

all’s right   

content to listen to her words   

instead of her tone of voice   

Her annoyance and sadness battle across her features   

surreptitiously, she wipes her silent tears   

waits for him to notice her heaviness   

His attention rivets on the game   

its motion mesmerizes him   

takes him away and isolates her   

She grabs hold of anger over sorrow   

indignation throws her off the couch   

propels her into their bedroom   

fuels the door slam   

He sits with bewilderment   

lost     

Cautiously, he approaches the closed door   

tentatively tapping   

Can I do something?   

No. I’m okay, fine     

I’ve got it handled   

Don’t worry   

He opens the door anyway   

pulls her into his arms   

In tenderness, he wipes the tears from her face   

We’ll handle it   

he soothes and reassures with understanding   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Leaves"

As the first frost neared, the water overflowed   

with reflected color of summer’s demise   

High in the wind, a remnant of warm days fell—   

alone—floating, turning, then softly at home   

Autumn silently ran among the towers,   

forcing the windowpanes to lose their fastened grasps   

In shimmering glory they cascaded down,   

shattering to rest at the tree roots below   

There, at last, by the river and on the curb,   

the vestiges of yesterday piled together   

They shift in the wind and await the first snow,   

wait to be buried in a blanket of cold.   

Copyright 1975 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Mother's Clone"

cradled gently in her arms   

Mother bends her head close to Child   

her finger feathers the pure smooth cheek     

her hair becomes a sheltering shield   

protecting them from prying eyes   

in syncopation Mother and Child breathe   

one without the womb   

Mother’s eyes mist as Child’s hair darkens   

her mouth becomes a rigid line     

when bluish eyes turn brown   

her voice takes on ice     

when others note differences   

in syncopation Mother and Child breathe   

one without the womb   

Mother’s heart hardens   

her Child wields her wayward will   

with terrible temper tantrums   

fists and teeth and legs fighting   

struggling against Mother’s programming   

in syncopation Mother and Child breathe   

one without the womb   

desperation drives Mother’s dissatisfaction   

she tethers Child with demands   

her fears feed phobias and fictional afflictions   

her disappointment distorts her love   

her rejection rips through Child   

in syncopation Mother and Child breathe   

one without the womb

Mother and Child stab and wound   

pushing and pulling in tangled bindings   

never severing the umbilical cord   

they dance in macabre madness   

enmeshed and ensnared within their love-hate trap   

in syncopation Mother and Child breathe   

one without the womb

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman