Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University, Rome, Georgia. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River magazine and more than fifty of other publications.
Against the backdrop of oranges, and purples,
three silhouettes hug in the bond
of life from a time neither of them really knew;
their heads touch barely, their hearts are one.
On the edge they sit, to the vanishing point,
running to a brave future, souls united,
their dreams, little sisters, little ladies;
so warm, they glow with the passion of a sun.
In their tummies butterflies flutter in electric sparks,
pulling them closer through their complete beings;
heads resting on one another as one;
yet three, and inseparable in loud silence.
One teaches love, the others smile in a sigh,
from the one they once were so much the same,
attached by distance, they will always overcome;
the murmurs of their selves speak the word.
Love floats nearby, living shroud against the end;
a fortress of centuries, of rivers, clouds and rainbows;
little models in the image of their father, flowery;
their scent of a spring eternal, travels unconquered.
Will one shift her gaze? Will she move a curl
of ebony silk to better capture the subtle disturbance?
will she detect the other presence in the mist?
or will it be the end of the possible dream?
Three, only sparkles of a lonely sky, so safe,
trembling in unison under the newborn dew;
their song, their story, their poem, their life,
unperturbed though aware of another gate.
Under the armor of lace and rose petals,
and the protecting eye of an all seeing lord,
in a castle of imaginary towers, motes, secret passages,
they sit in the coming mist of fairy dust.
No mirror to reveal the features of their angelic faces,
they remain facing the immensity calling their names;
the morrows for which they stand at ready,
forward they will march hand in hand, confident.
For, now that dawn has not yet come to be,
they must savor one last long embrace;
private, intimate, which to call their own,
only their own, where no stranger is welcome.
Love little girls, hold on firm;
your lives are one, not to ever let go,
love little darlings, simply love.
Sadness and wisdom
The wise sit quiet atop dear Mount Everest;
alone, they traveled against cold and death,
open folio in their laps frozen in reading.
Space is white beneath, powdery and pale
above, thin, icy, solid as the mountain below.
Squatting like the scribes of eternal scripture,
they have no need of social comforts, true to all,
enveloped in the aura of inquiries all resolved.
In the deep of the ocean, their brothers ape,
certain that they too found the ideal locale.
Theirs is the whole of all things, unknown to the rest,
slow beats of a relentless life machine inside,
guilty as charged of willed and complete isolation.
Be there one, be there many, the wise need no sleep;
their luxury lies in a misunderstood ability to be lonesome.
They have the unfathomed power of all that is,
the giants of the forest, the dwarves of creation,
sad, for abandoned by armies of jealous others.
Power of the tear
She walked in the middle of my life
with a suitcase full of hers;
I barely noticed
when she moved my things around;
and a drip in the bathroom,
drop in the kitchen,
flood into our lives.
So she walked out in the middle of my night
with her suitcase and one of mine.