Tuesday, May 7, 8pm

Erika Abrahamian

Girl In The Asylum

And I hide in my rigid box, again.
Fearing this wretched mailbox.
The deadly spiders have outstared us
This time.And they weave
Their pain, relentlessly
On my window pane.
But no one comes dear.
Still no one came.

They've locked me here,
In these steel chains.
Which remind me daily
of the aching way,
That your spine felt. Beaneath
My dark mane.
But no one comes dear.
Still no one came.

And spring will come soon.
Or so they all say.
But you know me, love;
I can never tell.
So I shut these eyes,
They don't work my way.
But no one comes dear.
Still no one came.

And I long for you
My teeth save their tales;
For you to fathom.
To learn. To accept.
And my sick tongue lies,
Much to my dismay.
But no one comes dear.
Still no one came.

And they say you're gone.
You did not stay.
Your hands held fires,
But mine was all flames.
So you put it out,
And flew away.
But no one comes dear.
Still no one came.

And I put all my hope
In a jar to sail.
To find you abroad,
Where you might stay.
Tell you in this room,
all I own is pain.
But no one comes dear.
Still no one came.

But since I had put
all my hope in you,
an empty jar reached you,
that you tossed away.
And I died in wait,
I'm sure you can say.
But no one comes dear.
Still no one came.

And they stitched me up.
Fed me novacane.
They tried so hard, to numb
All my pain. But as you might foretell
Once again they failed.
Since the truth remained that:
No one ever came.

***

The Woman

The woman is an enigma.
A riddle that has no solution.
She is all curves and urchin
And sacrifice. The woman is
a huntress. Outwardly showing
no regrets, no teeth marks...
As if time and lovers and birthmarks,
As if homes and deaths and landslides
left her untouched.

The woman is a treasure.
Her chest most sought after,
I suppose for such reason,
Not only for pleasure. She has played
The virgin, with her eyes sunken.
She has been the vixen, in men's minds, the villain.
As if earthquakes and orgasms and urine,
as if sangria and chocolate and valium
left her unmoved.

The woman is soft.
Hair black as tar. Afro today,
mohawk at dawn, mullet by dusk.
Mouth an eyehole, detecting
every tongue. Legs long ladders
connected at a forest of musk.
As if rapes and bleach and moles,
As if aquanet and sandalwood and soot
left her untouched.

The woman is a clown.
Lips dyed red, smile for a frown.
Eyes a harmony of pigments,
Pinks and greens and browns.
Cheeks coral rarities, where
The dimples drown.
As if suicides and surgeries and crowns,
As if diets and letdowns and nightgowns
left her untouched.

The woman is Aphrodite.
Licking the slime off of his groin.
Masking her disgust with every moan.
Riding self-loathing to her core.
Panting, raking, cumming on his loins.
Painfully aware, waiting to adjoin.
As if wife beaters, and emergency rooms and whores,
As if cheaters and honey and bedsores
left her untouched.

The woman is a witch.
Crazed by the longing,
She takes in men like potions,
mixing the chemicals in her uterus;
brewing a child for her sadness.
Using her belly as a compass.
As if sexism and Salem and trials,
As if mastectomies and urinals and Lazarus
left her untouched.

The woman is a God.
Pushing life out of her womb.
Using her vagina as a tool,
to create a genius, or perhaps a fool.
Storing the sweet life juice in her breast.
As if seraphim and Zeus and all the rest,
As if abortions and miscarriages and incest
left her untouched.

The woman is an entity all her own.
Lending her pain to this poem.
She's Arab. Persian. She is from Rome.
Ancient. Serene. A dirty whore.
She is loathsome, wears venom
For perfume. She will not be consumed.
As if men and lies and moans,
As if sexual confusion and loss and toads
left her untouched.

The woman is sacred.
You and I both need her.
Let us find her latest form
And worship her soul...