Two Poems by Sue Red

"Doomed Relationship" by Cindy Williams



Sketch of A Naked Lady

She lies here naked
no more than a pencil-thin line
of breath escapes his lips
as he draws her silhouette
everything is still
bathed in a thin light of longing
a replica of moments before they met
she lies here naked
perfectly still
not once does she reach for him
she lies here as he draws
they speak of nothing
as if there was nothing to speak of
they think of everything
she wonders if he lets himself miss
maybe its possible not to miss
in the midst of whatever
happens in the course of a day
she, she would never allow
herself not to miss
dammit, it hurts so much
right in the pit of the stomach
the part you feel
when you breathe, eat,
speak, or sing
also the part you wish from

Right at this moment of reflection
the lights dim
and she has a choice
to play the last chord
as E or G
E is a little sadder than G
the chord she plays,
she plays without questioning it
because in life
much like on stage
if you stop and question,
you miss the moment worth applauding



Are You There?
for Sylvia Plath

Unfinished stories, empty wine glasses.
Old 45’s merrily go round my phonograph
with equestrian strides. Horseshoes are
supposed to be good luck I thought as
I crumpled yet another sheet of paper.

Sylvia’s ghost came to visit me that night,
a tall blonde figure standing over my bed.
I knew why she was there.
“They’re not here.”, I said.
“The words, I look for them, but they’re just not here.”
She touched the stem of a sterling rose
in the vase on my nightstand,
ran her index finger along it until
something made her pull back.
She came closer to me, reached out with the finger
that now had a drop of scarlet on it,
and touched it to my cheek.
I could feel the warm, moist spot it left.
“They’re not here as much as I’m
not here right now,” she said.
Then she pressed her lips over
each of my eyelids until they were closed.
The next time I opened them, she was gone.

I rose and looked in the mirror.
The scarlet color was gone, but I could see her fingerprint clearly.
That morning I wrote.
Poetry in my own words,
stories from my own experiences,
but it was her fingerprints on the paper.