THE HOLLYWOOD RAGE PAGE

She woke up wife warm Bony and blonde In the marital clinch hold of her husband After dreaming of painting a Pysanky in her childhood kitchen Or maybe she saw herself  Twirling at a small village wedding In an embroidered folk dress with ribbons in her hair Compelled to dance by The music of Vidoplyasova  Or perhaps she saw scenes from Battleship Potemkin Or a Muratova film on the silver screens of her closed eyelids. But it was the nascent pink light of that Santa Fe morning That informed her that it was time to levitate off the mattress And become warm mommy Who in just a matter of minutes would bribe her child With the promise of a slice of Medovyk If he was a good boy today Which was followed by  A kiss lightly stamped on his forehead Like a royal seal Which in just a few hours He would remember As the way that she said goodbye. In the shower  Which pelted her like a summer rainstorm She suddenly felt like Lyudmila at the end of The Stolen Princess Which made her...

The flowers Which we cradled in a pale,   life-chipped ceramic vase, Like a vibrant, rosy-cheeked baby from  The fields of Arles Can only love us For so long  Before they begin to curtsy and bend Like a ballerina On withered stems Who will then float away at the speed of  suddenly lost love. And yet it was only a few days ago When we carried them home in our arms Trimmed and arranged them Like soft-hearted teachers placing children in size order And carried them on the reverence of tip-toes to their place of honor, On the notched pine bed of a  coffee table Where we stared at them every morning And every night like Hypnotized parents  And did everything we could to keep them happy and alive. And yet While we were otherwise engaged Watching The Crown Or playing Sudoku There was  A sudden decline An unannounced droop A Garboesque collapse as cells surrendered  and the bouquet passed away quietly Amidst a tangle of final baby breath This is why ...