Postcard Row

Vanessa Cosmopolite,
was a newly emerged lady
who rebelled the cocoon of home
unable to settle
in one place for long,
and flit through life
too fast.

She was a wanderer
disguised like the faces
of other beautiful woman,
who were small like her
delicate and quiet
who especially like living
near flowery meadows
and mountain tops
gathering aster, cosmos,
thistle, and buttonbush
but flew
to the action
of San Francisco.

The night lights of the city
attracted her
as she stood by
the Painted Ladies.
They were tinted
in three or more colors
embellishing
their architectural details
and nested on the congested hill
in a row of Victorian and Edwardian
houses at 712-720 Steiner St.
bordering Alamo Square Park.

With the brightly orange sleeves
of her cropped sweater
she lifted both arms
simultaneously over her head
as she pulled her hair up in bands
creating knobbed-like antennae
the Asian look
the men now wanted
upon her head.

Her dress was short
silky and wispy black
billowing its symmetrical
pattern and shape
with an orange patterned slip
peeking out as the breeze
flipped it
like the underside
of a delicate wing.

At the end of her
taste sensored legs
long, bronzed and lean
tiny spiked heels help her land
and stay on the pavement,
her perch.

She had a nervous feeling
almost defenseless
flying that night
in the pit of her stomach,
the night she became
a Painted Lady.
She was identified by her prey,
those night lizards,
by the black and white purse
that she carried.

And the Painted Lady
was a pretty nymph
with tiny scales of makeup
coloring her eyelids
tinted in three or more colors
embellishing her natural details
but only a touch
so as not to diminish
the beauty
of her blue pupils
keeping you from seeing
the black markings
on her upper side,
in case you looked
too close.

She quickly gained a reputation
for being a renowned
world traveler
a pristine specimen
spotted and photographed
before taking off to her next
unknown destination.

Her species resided
only in warmer areas
migrated in spring
and sometimes again in autumn
from North Africa
and the Mediterranean
to Britain
in May and June
any offspring
produced there
but not eaten
by their mother
would die in the fall.

Naturally diurnal
she slowly
became nocturnal
active during the day
and sleeping
without rest
during the night.

And in the heat
she was butterfly cooked
camouflaged as meat
split between her legs
separated it into halves
that somehow remained
joined in the middle.

During that time,
her goal was to reproduce
money
and lay eggs of desire
so the cycle
can begin again
before her wings
could be ripped off
by another hunting man
with a net.

This hairy, black and yellow
caterpillar, her pimp,
used his strong jaws
to munch through money
like paper
eating constantly
and growing quickly
while she barely ate,
and her skin grew tighter
as she fed on thistles
while the adults around her
gorged what was meant for her.

Flying low
on energy
and dignity
she desperately looked
for a safe place to rest
and find time for
a needed metamorphosis.
She knew she needed
to shed her tight covering,
emerging
with new skin underneath.

They say she fought back
four times
before the silken threads
of a discolored tie
came out from just below
his swearing mouth
shouting obscenities
as he hung her in his lair.

He split her skin open,
from head to abdomen,
revealing a shiny red liquid
that pooled on the floor
and dried too dark
for white prayers
to reform her
as she hung from the light
of a cheap hotel room
where the butterflies
painted on
the hideous wallpaper
screamed.

But in another world she emerges
from her chrysalis,
her wings soft and crumpled.
So tired she rests,
and then
slowly
unfolds
her wings to dry.

Soon she will be ready
to float into the light
because butterflies need
the sun to fly.

To fly.

Time’s Hostage

I saw it first
out of the corner
of my right eye
as it flew
effortlessly gliding
in an arch
surrounding my head
and landing on
my left wrist.

It was only about
an inch and a half long
rectangular in shape
made of some kind
of metal
slippery and dark
like polished hematite.

It clamped
against my skin
with a powerful suction
and it took great force
on my part
to pull it off
and throw it,
but I did.

As it flew
in a strenuous arch
it made a noise,
soft at first
then loud and shrill,
like the fire alarm
at school.

Instantly my wrist
began to swell
and two impressions
remained
one, an indented square
the other, three little pin pricks
where blood
was now forming.

Aliens.
I knew it.
They had tried to probe me
like all the rest.
But I was too quick for them.
I had seen it coming.

I knew I should
get some ice
or suck on it myself
in case of poison,
but all I did was run.

My feet were flying
so rapidly that both feet
felt momentarily
off the ground
with each step
as I ran through hallways
blocking up with people
standing in line
for breakfast.

They wouldn’t let me through
while they talked
of muffins and cereal
and toast.

What?
Are they kidding?
Who cares about pancakes,
waffles and eggs?
Could they see
the danger
we were all in?
Shouting in my frustration,
I woke up.

But even though, as the teacher,
I remind my students all the time
that they can’t end their stories
with it all just a dream,
it was.

It just feels a little odd
strapping a watch on
to my left wrist
as I grab a quick breakfast
and run to school.