by Stephen Mead
For all it’s just a matter of time each spirit knows
so make the most of what’s given as a fallen woman, centuries past,
black-swan swimming, upright in dark crinolines, her skirts textured purple paisley
crushed in velvet with fine filigree stitching, running like mascara through the wake
of the passed-through moors spreading their lavender heather, heavenly fragranced towards cliffs
aerial now over frothy waves bashing as she makes her way, chin up,
quietly not swallowing pride though ready now to turn around and wear the Scarlet A.
Make no mistake this is courage manifesting for future brides raising gauntlets to hawks
as well as veils of armor-sheen tossed off before compacts, the round mirrors
sending signals of light, above the compressed powder kept gun-residue dry as kegs
for tear-clear eyes never streaking the pancake beige of defense perfected
with an eyebrow pencil and lipstick case, though so human underneath, humanity itself
the feminine to masculine roles played so break the imprisoning
gender personas societies assign to keep in line everyone when really it’s just another way
of being the indentured trade artisans who sketch and mold via paint, alabaster or clay
the Great Master’s plan though given no credit for their anonymous craft
building Civilization’s cultures from Temples to Sphinxes when each smallest detail
breathes a fingerprint’s ingenious work, no two alike in the now-
Pow- how suddenly it is here good as brown paper, as useful as cardboard,
the honey-varnished boxes old clothes are lowered in as handed-on fabric scraps
for Quilter’s Clubs, those magicians, earthy as wooden peg coat racks also of fantasy-flight-
clothesline-embarked-strays the flesh parades in rooms of snow-brightened light,
the Whitsun windows of industry in winter, the walls stretched as sheets
for that shadow play when no one is home, busy in the out there where the same sun comes
in similar slants, as long as there’s glass, any greenhouse opening computer-screen lit
should one day we be only memes other emojis copy & paste like upon like
to speak for the soul’s emotional lifetime as a relay of circuit sparks
in the hardware’s wired motherboard algorithmically quasar-pulsing.
Resident artist/curator for The Chroma Museum, artistic renderings of LGBTQI historical figures, organizations and allies predominantly before Stonewall, (thestephenmeadchromamuseum.weebly.com), Stephen Mead is a retiree whom, throughout all his pretty non-glamorous jobs still found time for writing poetry/essays and creating art. Occasionally he even got paid of this. Currently he is trying to sell his 40-year backlog of unsold art before he pops his cogs, artworkarchive.com/profile/stephen-mead.
