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Candice Fabian Poem
A Love Poem
Get under my shoe.
Crawl down there and flatten.
Spread yourself, ooze
Between the cracks of my heels,
Solidify with old gum and dog hair and
Stay there.
Squish when I tip to the balls of my feet,
Sink into cement,
Drown out in the moist heat of
Baltimore sunshine.
Stick to the blacktop,
Leave small chunks of yourself behind to
Dry out and crust over
For a dog to nibble,
Or a bum to piss on,
Or a crow to pick at
He’ll peck out your eyes,
At least what’s left of them.
I’ll track the rest of you home through
Back alley water and random piles of
Dog ****.
Then I’ll loosen and scrape you with
An old gnarly stick,
Fling your remnants across my front porch and
Walk inside,
Without thought,
Leave you there to
Ponder your ****-and-scum-covered existence before the
Noonday rains come and wash you away.
Copyright © Candice Fabian | Year Posted 2011
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Candice Fabian Poem
Salty,
Windy,
Dense,
And thick.
Even the black-and-white checkered
Sink
Smells like fish.
Copyright © Candice Fabian | Year Posted 2011
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Candice Fabian Poem
You are not taken by me:
You are taken by the shadows and shapes there.
Sharp collarbones, acute angles when knees bend, shin to thigh:
Movement in the night, soft sighs, I am wisp-of-smoke, wisp-of-woman, neither living nor dead, your head
Cradled to my breasts, my eyes soft there.
I am your mother, your worship, your hellhound, your whore:
Everything to you, I am, but I am not me.
You see the curve below the protuberance of hip, the pink softness of these lips,
Strangled under weighted red hair:
“Who are you?”
The moon arches her slivered arrows from the quiver of night,
Impaled by the furious darkness you seduce a sea creature,
Claim my skin as amphetamine,
See one hundred faces of people from ancient cultures and places
And each one you see is them, is not me, and:
Why should it matter?
Do I embody primal identity?
Copyright © Candice Fabian | Year Posted 2011
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Candice Fabian Poem
I peel you slowly.
Inch by inch.
Hands stutter, then
Nimbly uncinch.
First bite of flesh tight
And unyielding.
Slowly tenderize.
The salts are for curing.
You simmer slow.
Acid tang briefly
Taints the tongue –
Aromatic, you are like
Jasmine rice.
Just inhaling your slow roast
Salivates.
Slowly knead and
Rise.
Behold my baking –
Mine for the taking.
Throat wants to sing –
mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm………………………………………….
Copyright © Candice Fabian | Year Posted 2011
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Candice Fabian Poem
Butcher beats bloodied meats
Baker takes a heavy seat
Hands are flour’d, rolling dough
‘round wooded table to and fro,
Humming softly, braids and bakes
Bread loaves, muffins, pastries, cakes.
Olive bar, briny.
Plump lumps all soft and shiny.
Some are pitted while others, bare,
Engorged with peppers, cheeses fare
Better than their pitted mates
Drying out on doiley’d plates
For passerby to pluck and pop
Chew up, spit out
While they shop.
Around the corner fishes stare
with cold black eyes and, scaly, wear
ice chips chopped from big brick blocks
mouths agape, tails curled mid-flop,
salmon, tuna, rockfish, crab
laid out for hungry hands to grab.
Children, cranky, fuss and fret
"Time to go?" Oh no, not yet:
The cart wheels squeal, high heels keep time
as mothers vie for first in line -
in hurried hand the checks, they sign.
Bag boys bustle by the street,
stuffing cars with eggs, bread, meat,
then the station wagons wheel away:
Another busy market day.
Copyright © Candice Fabian | Year Posted 2011
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Candice Fabian Poem
To Sea
I would like to think that
The big, white birds soaring
Over choppy waters
Or the way my camera captures
A straight, bold beam of light
Is a vision of sorts –
A gift from you,
To me.
This vision would say:
“Hey!
I’m still around,
Right here –
I linger where our bodies first touched on
Warm summer ground”
I would like to think that
You are watching us,
Now –
The strips of bark have become
Sea worthy vessels;
The children, captains of
Sticks-and-Sand,
They run amok, marvelously
On this jutting peninsula
Just as, once, you and I.
I would like to think that
We haven’t lost touch –
Not really;
You are merely seeking solace in
Strong, biting winds as they
Blow by the dockside;
That you are merely warming
Wings yet too weak to
Fly.
I would like to believe that
The caress of breath on my
Shoulder is you.
I turn.
You are gone.
Copyright © Candice Fabian | Year Posted 2011
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Candice Fabian Poem
I am tired,
I am tired and broken and I
Want to go home.
“Home is where the heart is”
Well my heart it does roam…
I am tired, I am broken, and I
Want to go home.
Pick up the pieces,
House built of sticks,
Heart built of sorrow,
Pain built of bricks.
“Home is where the heart is”
Well, my heart it does roam….
I am tired, and broken, and I
Want to go home.
Her arms made of lilies,
Face freckled, and pale,
A heart made for breaking,
A soul made to sail,
Left a lone body
Too young yet to warm,
Left a lone body
Too wet yet to mourn,
“Home is where the heart is”
Well, my heart it does roam,
For I am tired, and broken, and I
Want to go home.
The lips do not tremble,
The eyes do not tear,
The feet do not stumble,
The soul does not fear,
The journey’s a long one,
Many miles yet to go,
The journey takes a strong one,
Many miles yet to know….
Many miles left to wonder,
Many miles left to pass,
Birth a great swath of sadness
‘til I’m home safe at last.
Copyright © Candice Fabian | Year Posted 2011
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Candice Fabian Poem
He had come in all banged up.
I normally lust after the tall ones, and he is relatively short --
Having just returned from a weekend of Mixed Martial Arts,
His left eye was swollen.
He had a bruise across his right cheek bone. But he was smiling.
He was smiling, and happy, and kind, and gentle,
brought in freshly made frittatas:
“You know he’d do it.
“But Katie’s a nice woman. She really is a great woman.
I love her. I absolutely love her.”
I want him to slam me against the bathroom wall,
tear off my clothes,
restrain my arms and have his way with me.
It would be so easy.
So easy for such a quick, cheap thrill.
It is winter, after all
(Too cold for roller coasters).
I roll it around, taste it on my tongue.
“Oh,that Katie, you would love her. I miss her. She’s just the happiest, cutest little thing”
I’m too old for that. I’m thirty now. I have morals now. I have morals.
I tell her so,
Tell her! --
Tell her I have morals! --
I finger his card in my Rolodex,
Make note of the ten-digit number.
Copyright © Candice Fabian | Year Posted 2011
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Candice Fabian Poem
The crazy old men always get their way,
Can make Big Changes in all small things,
Stoned enough, drunk enough, pens and mouths quick enough
To dribble nonsense onto paper the way they
Piss their names into the snow.
Oh, they can ramble!,
About speed, about sex, about The Man,
About the loose and lovely women they
Laid in Mexico and
Left, swollen,
It was necessary, you see,
They weren’t quite sure what kind of
Fathers they would be,
And in this reckless fallow there lies
Art.
Copyright © Candice Fabian | Year Posted 2011
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