Under my bed
is a box of books,
classic as Augustine,
holding prisoner my ideas
while I am trying to be
somebody else. Not van Gogh
or even Ignatius of Loyola
although my times have
been insane, and my lucidity,
briefer than the saint's vigil
by the bed for the space
of an "Our Father."
I keep my paintings under my bed
and my pains too. I keep
my heart and my treasure,
photos of my vision,
my artistic persona.
I keep Pierrot under my bed
pirhouetting freely inside
his porcelain doll box,
painted tear on his hard white cheek
under his silver eye.
Under my bed
are the hopes and dreams
of a thousand winters
past the Reformation,
western civilization marching
and I still am not free.
I keep my masks under my bed
and this is my pantomime,
illuminated in gold-leaf ink.
I keep it all under my bed
waiting and hoping
for the performance of a lifetime
where Birkenstocks are ballet shoes
and I am whatever comes.
has worked as a social worker, special education teacher
and vocational counselor. She is a watercolor artist and photographer who
writes because she has to. Her poetry, stories and essays have been
published in The Healing Woman, Dreamweavers, Pegasus (Kentucky State Poetry
Society Journal),St. Anthony Messenger,
The Independent Review and other journals. Mary loves words passionately, especially those used to heal and care.
read Mary's review of
Annie G. Rogers, Ph.D.
Freud was here talking about a fine straw hat
that would look good on him and go
finely with his cigar. I lay on my bed,
eyes closed, admiring the hat. And then
dybbuks came and made fun of me.
"What are you doing," they asked,
"in twenty-first century Ohio -- and you a woman
playing hostess to the likes of Freud?"
"Getting ready. Getting ready," I said,
"to learn things of the heart
that he has brought here
stuffed in his wondrous hat."
- Mary Bach-Loreaux