The Frowning Woman

There within the F terminal,
where at the 33rd Gate,
at which the plane sat outside,
destined for Portland,
Maine, a woman crouched low,
frowning more than I, and
I sat on the radiator,
peering into that frown
with a frosted grimace--
my nostrils filled with
crusted snot, my cheeks
flaking in the dry airport
interior. Those lights were
made for subtle exploitation.

You cannot take away the
cruelty that I express,
have been begging to learn
to let out. I do not care
how you have reacted, but--
it is not your place to
move my goals to yours!

The frowning woman, of course.
Of course she was lost
in her own world, insane
enough to be thinking
blood-red thoughts too,
or maybe she was not
contemplating anything at all--
well, perhaps her anger stemmed
from some hectic Christmas travel,
or the deadening stress of going
again to her family, or maybe
a severed boyfriend who
used to be so prominent
but was now dull and petty.

Upon clicking my email
I discovered a new gift
certificate, and thought
that perhaps this erroneous
subterfuge was merely a secretious
nondescription meant for
the usual gift exchange tomorrow,
during the morning, time lapse
shit and pearly consummation--
last threads to childhood,
last time of company in the
land of jovial inheritance.

But I have come to realize
secrets evaporate through
sugar, fat, and oils--wine
cascading from tongue like
a thief stealing hot items;
there is a level of mischief,
whether you consider it
cool or atrocious, that sits
in my stomach and aches to
be let out like bulls or darts.
My fingers will not be calmed.
My bowels will not be silenced.
I have sought misery and now
misery seeks me from above,
behind, spiked metal of sky,
memories and disembowelments
around each bend, every step--

In tears I think, I spout,
all aloud likening to branches.
Fetch the dogs and join me,
oh frowning woman, wherever
you may be (home or hell,
or both), because my hope right
now is in your concordance--
do not fail me in paralleling
my own strict being, awkward
and clumsy, non-responsive
and forgetful, while the ground
freezes and the chimney lets
along woodstove puff tracks
into the town's ancient air.
Let the broken lights trace
the sky, these hands clutch skull.