September 30-October 6, 2002: Chad Davidson, Erin Elizabeth and Dawn O’Leary

Bio (auto)

Chad Davidson lives in Binghamton, New York He won first place in this year’s contest with his saucy poem Cleopatra’s Bra.

The following work is Copyright © 2002, and owned by Chad Davidson and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Cleopatra’s Bra Each mouthful of wine would raise her body heat until a touch of gold slivered and rose off her dark skin, caught somewhere in a jewel of sweat This is the Egypt I imagine: pyramids, obelisks, the Valley of Kings, and one torn bra Meanwhile, the Romans fashioned their parchment, filled it with long strings of letters: A for ave, B for beato–blessed, C, of course, for Caesar, with no space between them as to appear infinite Augustus did try The old argument: come home, she’s bad news But for Antony there would be no empire cloven: a pregnant dream as he lay again with her, clothes strewn on the ground like artifacts of a lost city under ash, and those two bodies caught once more, together, for all of Rome to see Because it did end, Virgil says, in ruins of a city, toppled towers, and one fictitious Dido who let it all hang out one Carthage summer so hot the oarsmen gave up their fears, Acestes descended his throne without bearskin, Aeneas loved and left, Dido died I like to imagine her scrawling a message to the future regarding love– flagrant love–and sacrificial fires like those she clothed her city in one night: Beware the Roman come to lie with you, one hand heart-heavy and bound there like the swearing-in of a city official Feeling her lover fiddle with the clasp, Cleopatra must have thought, does everything come undone with this one small breach of virtue? One giant step backward, she hears the inevitable unleashing of the dogs, the centuries head to toe in armor, and the lift, they say, of a shallow wicker basket I like to imagine her calmly spreading her robe, a leisurely cup of wine, her fingers unclasping the bra from behind as the asp negotiates the sea of azure silk that separates them, empires colliding, and the golden tint of scales.

Erin Elizabeth
erin@sundress.net

Bio

Erin Elizabeth lives in Binghamton, New York and is the creativestress behind Stirring: A Literary Collection, and it’s adopted parent Sundress.net She is the second place winner in this year’s contest

The following work is Copyright © 2002, and owned by Erin Elizabeth and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

A Poem For Allie, Who Finally Detonated Mom said that you were quiet and calculated last visit, sitting on your furrowed sheets folding and unfolding my letter, not sure whether to rip the envelope at the stamp or the address She tells me you were cheeking your pills, wild in their wake, selling them for hands and promise She wants to know why were they not prodding your tongue, checking your ridge of gum, and I wonder why you bother with this sharp idea which will only end with someone’s teeth on the floor, hair in a fist On Tuesday, you carved his name on your wrist, a yellow road sign A limb lit by lightning And Mom pulled you from the womb of that building, and when you returned, she barred your windows, cracked open all your doors She is not trying to quiet your whip smart tongue, shake silent your humming hands It is just that your words are all a contusion, a blackberry of bruise breaking open along her cheek It is just that she is weak from pirating your room of nail polish, hair spray, that she does not know how to be steady fingers through hair Allie Really Should I tell you that you will outgrow this? Because I am at the yawning mouth of maturity, and sometimes still I break into my veins with paperclips and knives I want to I want to tell you it will all end soon, this hard-boiled youth, this buffet of sadness, but you have fumbled with death — I can hear the cold beak of it speaking through your mascara alphabet You are too small to outrun this thing you have conjured You cannot cram yourself under the sink, with its intestine of pipe, Ajax It knows you It is waiting there.