love in the time of war (children of Abraham)

we may walk the aisle of a concentration camp
instead of St. Basil's like we wanted to
but Moscow or Auschwitz doesn't matter
as long as i spend my life with you.
It may be short, but we will fight:
our fabled blood runs deep.
we'll hold each other tightly in this
slaughterhouse for sheep.
"may the children of this union
walk out of here alive"
i'd be content with that, even if we
both have to die.
but either way, they'll show their face
and prove themselves so strong.
they'll learn to love their "fatal wrong"
they'll always fear is flawed.
i hope they'll fight for what they are
and what is right to do,
and they find someone to love them
half as much as i love you.
our wedding bells may mix with rings
of atom bombs and tears
but i would never trade that moment
for a thousand peaceful years.
i write you this because i fear
it may not be too long
until the screaming of the gas rooms
drowns out my lovestruck song,
but i beleive that some day
we can all stand side-by-side
and the anthem of the nations
will suffocate vain pride.
so rise, you child of Abraham!
lift up your weary head!
for if they kill our bodies,
our spirits live instead.
and when you're in that chamber filled
with gas like molten jade,
recount that love is tangible;
my love will never fade.
they cannot take what they can't see:
love can't be touched or shot.
inside this hell, hear wedding bells
until we meet with God.

the end of that song is death

you have conveniently ignored the gaudy unread danger signs
i have so tactfully placed in the outskirts of your peripheral vision
to protect you, to save you.
do not think i will allow you to be destroyed.
somewhere there is a memory binding me to you
dormant and half-forgotten in the inner recesses of your mind
sleeping with third-grade arithmetic and world capitals.
find it, keep it, unfold it.
do not try to forget me, to be lulled into a false sense of security
as if i were a wanton maiden,
as if my flaws were a cold spell to be endured and overcome.
i am a Siren,
and the cold sweet song pouring forth from my salt-saturated lips
is only the more desirable as you know it will destroy you.
i am only the more despisable because i know i will destroy you,
and i love you.
do not touch these murky waters with your much worshipped feet!
i will tempt you; i will smile at you through my eyes
and devour you a thousand times in my cruel imagination
before the monster in my blood will rip you into pieces,
and with a crooked smile on your face you will accept the consequence
of our sweet, ill fated love.
do not stash away these photographs!
those fraying, yellowed warnings!
it is only your beautiful, lifeless body that will ever touch mine.
your face is eager in the moonlight, your hands gripping the railing
and my teeth flash out a meager final warning
as our throats are filled with the song of the sea,
and your feet dip into the dusky tide.
and you know i will destroy you.
"thus, the lion fell in love with the lamb"

dull and dreary

dull and dreary, the first day of spring.
why do you insist on snatching
from my shaking hands
it's most adored treasure?
oh, how i love him!
and how your feelings roam
from succulent indifference to half-fat passion
on call, like warm fronts,
destroying your heart.

these glossy words

the glossy words you pull from your mouth,
so polyester and carefully chosen. they haunt me.
oh, this wretched battle which is so speechless
and penetrating.
the sweetntess of your tongue has turned
to venom, vile and staining.
your eyes flick with icy freedom
accross these rows of music stands,
and that searing love has turned to fiery hate.
in this moment, you despise me.
a vague and mortal silence settles
between us as a fog;
an elephant's accidental death by
erring wartime shrapnel on an
innocent white carpet.
the harp cries out achingly, refreshingly
intelligible words, more sensible
than this anger, these glances
so filled with poisoned bile.
this, which has no substance, and yet
cannot be ignored.

Vampire Fever

It's 7:45 AM downtown, in the sophomore hallway of Chattanooga's largest Christian academy. Yawning teenagers in Sperrys and Ralph Lauren polos lounge sleepy-eyed against the walls discussing the latest social scandals and last night's geometry homework. Distinct, tight-knit circles form: squealing cheerleaders in Jimmy Choo espadrilles; sporty, ponytailed girls right-off-the-track in running shoes and ankle wraps; and the expletive bursting, hungover druggies with blackened undereye circles and pant waists dragging the peach linoleum tiles.

Where, oh where, are the art kids?

Look a little closer, you may have missed them. They're the small group slouched on the floor near the math room, making no eye contact and uttering no sound. Their attention and faces are religiously buried in several copies of a small, black book whose cover portrays pale, petite female hands holding an apple. What is this book, so addictive and obsessive, which draws them so willingly away from their iPods and chemistry reports?

Twilight.

Oh, yes. Until recently, I admit that i was a nonbeliever. When reading replaced conversation in the hallway before class, I turned up Regina Spektor in my earphones and flipped through Elle. When bickering about "who has Eclipse now?!" or "are you almost done with New Moon yet??" replaced controversy over the origins of my would-be lover's mysterious orangey tan, I considered it natural. When my sister began searching for "Edward Cullen Fan Fiction" rather than doing her report on the Roman Empire, I was slightly apprehensive. When Caroline, a slightly flighty but exceptionally level headed rock bassist proclaimed, "You know, I'm pretty pale... and I really don't sleep that much. I think I'm a vampire!", I laughed indulgently. When "I always picture myself as Bella" was the sole topic of an animated small group conversation, I snorted, "Bella! That's my cat's name." But when eager perusal of this all-consuming trilogy dominated the all-important "nap time" in Bible class, I was shocked and alarmed. What was this-this thing that was driving my friends to the point of madness with suspense, with the inability to set it down for any length of time?

Being a journalist at heart, I set myself out on a mission to investigate this heroin-like novel which had so captivated everyone around me. I plopped it down on the counter of Barnes & Noble along with Mansfield Park and the new Lucky, contemplating the amount remaining on my debit card, when the gothic looking cashier- heavy black eyeliner, studded belt on wide legged pants and all- gasped, nose ring quivering with emotion, and stuttered: "oh! i LOVE this book! Vampires Rock!" Hmmm, i thought. Note to Self: obsession NOT limited to single demographic. My Lacoste-clad, southern Baptist mother glanced at me in quiet alarm. Another Note to Self: await brutal, terrorist-like interrogation and half-hour long discourse on "filling your mind with evil" in the car, young lady.

Upon arriving home, non-lawyer-like discussion capabilities exhausted, I curled myself into a ball on my mattress and opened the book.

I'd never given much thought as to how i would die... but even if I had, I would never have imagined it like this.

Hmm. This should be interesting.

But, like many a petulant athiest setting out to disprove Christianity, I was converted in the process. Now those whose obsession I mocked can smile smugly from beneath their Spring Break tans and say, "Oh, you've only now finished Twilight? It's too bad someone's borrowed New Moon..." Yes, one might say i was bitten- enthusiastically, even- by Edward Cullen. I've caught Vampire Fever.

Two hundred pages into the book, the persistent vibrating of my cell phone dragged me away from my blissful reverie, forcing me to look at the clock. Three hours! And OH, Matt, why MUST you have texted me RIGHT this INSTANT? Who CARES if my prom dress matches your tuxedo? Edward just saved Bella's LIFE!

It's true. I'm officially addicted. In two enraptured days, I have feverishly devoured all 498 pages of my new favorite treat, gulping it down ravenously between Church services and untimely trips to Lowes, and while elder-sitting my Alzheimer's afflicted grandmother. Unlike the sophisticated Cullen family, who abstains from their "natural food source" in favor of less morbid mammals such as squirrels and mountain lions, I am not nearly strong enough, or willing enough, to stoop to lesser sources of occupation. Sorry, Mansfield Park, you'll have to wait. And oh, Spring Preview Lucky, I must perforce wait to scrutinize the carefully worded captions under your glorious chiffon blouses and candy colored pumps. Yes, tomorrow after band practice it's straight to Barnes & Noble again; to chat with my new aquaintence with the globby eyeliner, to meet with two other Vampire addicts at book club, and one whom shall soon join our coven: hopefully, we won't get carried away and leave her with an unsightly scar on her slender, white neck...

Really, the male perfection of Edward Cullen is reason enough to read the book. Or become a vampire. He personifies the type of boy that makes girls sigh, and glance condescendingly at the lazy, nose-picking boys around them. Besides giving females unreasonable expectations about the male gender, he is the absolute perfect partner to Bella- and we've already established that "we all picture ourselves as Bella", as she is extremely relatable and adorably flawed. Edward is sweet, protective, mysterious... and fascinating. He's the proverbial "knight in shining armor", so blinded by his deep and unconditional love for simple Bella that he is willing to deny himself everything that he desires in order to protect her. One, two, three: "awww..."

It's as simple as an Edward Cullen Fan Band (yes, they really exist) song says:
"Vampires are no fun to haunt,
but Edward, you can bite me if you want!"

You know, I have always been unnaturally pale for a Jewish girl. Strikingly so. And, it could be my eyesight, but I have been noticing a slightly blurred reflection on the offchance that i look in the mirror. And as well, I do happen to have an uncanny attraction to the ridiculously handsome lead singer of Vampire Weekend. One never knows...

it's sunday, love

it's sunday, and the sun is scintillating
over your head like a thousand yellow rubies
as you smile and tilt your shining face
to the sky. oh, he loves you, does he?
these dewey blades of grass are thicker
than the newborn string that binds
your hearts together.
you have no fear, do you?
no fear that he'll cause tears to marr your
pretty little face
or carpetburn to leave raw your
pretty little heart,
and you must call him back immediately
because you are so in love with him.
it's sunday, love, and you're a pretty fool.

oh! these foolish first time lovers

oh! these foolish first time lovers,
so unpracticed in their art!
they know not to seal their pockets,
bubble-wrap their fragile hearts.
never ones to read instructions,
never could tell real from fake.
will you bury all your diamonds?
will you shock your souls awake?
time and time again they'll search it:
i fear they'll never learn that
it's the curse of those who love
to be handed heartache in return.

aftertaste

he stares blankly at your heart
a rumpled piece of paper
plain and meaningless on the floor.
there is nothing in his eyes today
but slight disinclination.
you are the unpleasant and
slightly chlorinated aftertaste of
too much sugar.
once, he loved you; and he loved you well:
"i would that you were mine, and mine alone"

this glossy face

the hardened heartbeat of this glossy face
is rather like the stark and silver thud of
ancient drainpipe, tied with fraying ropes
to tires who have seen many miles,
dropping angrily into nothingness.
i touch your face but there is no substance,
only a strikingly anonymous visage
which is both exotic, and strangely familiar.
you speak with nonchalance like molten glass,
like sharply snapping shards of it;
pleasantly saying nothing at all,
such beautiful, empty words.

catch breath

these vague and vulgar beings,
a glorified version of my most recurrant
nightmare,
are tearing you apart and you still stand
solemnly, stoically between them
like a boulder in a sea of angry, arch-backed
fruit flies,
like they can never hurt you.
i plead with you, despise their words!
my world-weary eyes meet your
stony gaze,
but there is no recognition in your eyes.
at the sight of your most beloved
you feel nothing.

once again, with wily Shakespeare

here once again we sit with wily Shakespeare
in our hands. i think of nothing but the glimmer
on the wall, above your head.
do you know? i've never noticed how
your eyes, so luminescent, so voluminous, so quietly
do rest upon my face.

i must declare i feel as one enamored!
why, in my bones does stir a carbonation,
and in my back a stinging point did pierce,
alarming and sedating with its warmth.

i do beleive you've brushed me accidentally,
and i feel it. oh! the power of the unintended
movement of one's leg! not one arrow, but a
quiver, does reside within my chest,
with marked residences labeled in its cavity.

deranged, my heart! wherefore do you so thunder?
arise, mine eyes, to view the fervent
startled globes before thee, growing soft
in their intensity as mine own palpitations.

each syllable which leaves your pretty mouth
does give me fever, does exhume me,
puts a pen into the pocket of each lullaby i read.
and now we sit with clever Shakespeare,
quickly perforating barriers,
reading into every structured phrase the
slight enamoured sparks between us.

oh, you, Cupid! in the corner,
laughing at your practised sport.
of a quite contented lady
now you've made a scrambling lover;
of a poised and limber heart,
you've created quite a mess.
watch your arrows, scheming Cupid,
that they hit where you've intended!

her breath is sweet

her breath is sweet until it turns to fire
upon her lips.

dashboard

your feet are on the dashboard
which is mildly disconcerting but i
feel no prickling reason to
reprove you.
panic, panic
where have all the feelings gone?
struck their foot upon these tiles
with sparks like shattering bells
and declared our incompetance,
leaving suddenly
draping death cloth over our love's corpse
trailing paper documentations
like august leaves lately fallen from
it's briefcase.
maybe, maybe
they will return as suddenly as their
untimely departure
and warmth will gush into our eyes again
rather than the dull and lifeless
glances soaked with
what we thought was love.

high tea with lovers

oh, you. who never speaks a word
but carefully investigates the world in which
i live as if to follow me there.
which i will not allow.
and oh, he! whose eyes have developed
an unnatural intensity each blessed time
they rest on mine,
tinging my skin warm with their fever.
you, sir, are that mildly angering sensation,
a provoking itch which surfaces only when
one is buried deep under the comforting blankets
of one's own bed, in that blissful state of
hallucination before dreaming,
that agitation which corrupts the languid peace
of rest.
and oh, he! he is that euphoric daydream, that
fiber of being which has no being,
who cradles my affection in his eyes until
you spoil the rapturous interaction with a flick
of your milky eyes,
shattering our silent, hidden discourse of
i have thee not, and yet i see thee still.
yes, you, sir, fill my very soul with nothing more
than overpowering blandness,
the lifeless stare of one who is not
or the emptyness of sugar-free coffee cakes.
and oh, but he! he floods my entirety with fiery
sucrose which is thoroughly forbidden
and tastes all the sweeter for it.
i am to you as a delusion, an apparition,
a hypothetical situation only loosely based upon
reality,
a glittering mirage all the more desirable
as it cannot be captured.
but oh, to him! i am the sugar pot at high tea,
reflective of himself and filled with such warmth,
making life more bearable
upon melting into it, and
really all one came for in the first place.