UNDERGROUND VOICES MAGAZINE/CYNTHIA RUTH LEWIS

CYNTHIA RUTH LEWIS

Resurrection At Motel 6

She didn't fall far; just enough to be noticed.

Rejected, cast out into the world of man, seeking
acceptance; affection, in the only way she could understand.
Physical contact; open arms--she only wanted promises
of safety and security: adoration which she clutched tight
to her chest like a prayer, with their hand hot on her knee
as they drove, the neon sign flashing its welcome up ahead,
just beyond the curve in the bend, under the knowing eye
of the yellow moon, dreams fading quickly beneath its harsh
glare as they enter one of the tiny rooms that always reek
of defilement, smoke, and cheap perfume.

It is there where she is always taken; there,
where she is dissected, disemboweled, and buried
again and again by men with eager, probing tools,
slobbering tongues and feverish hands as they search,
always searching for their own paradise,
their idea of temporary heaven.

And, when it is over, when it is done,
even with their dead, spent weight full upon her
and their seed already cold on her thigh,
the flutter of her heart beating, wings rustling louder
than the fluorescent Vacancy hum--
her dimming halo, no longer a light to guide by,
but still brighter than the flashing sign outside
the window remains, pulsing,
like a fingered vein within the hallowed darkness.

Drone

I can't say I know what it's like to be murdered, but
all I remember from that gray, soggy void they called a
day were the comforting words of the nurse and the pills
for pain and calm (dispensed by steady, open palms) and
then the needle stabbing its home into my arm and words
blurring into a crawl and a swab of something cold between
my legs then the sweet numbness of nothing yet hearing
the monotonous drone of a kind of vacuum and when I came
to I recall not feeling emptied out or hollow just

alone.

Cynthia Ruth Lewis:
I'm 38, having written poetry for the past 17 years. Currently back in the publishing
world after having taken a 2 year hiatus due to creative apathy and temporary insanity--
which, actually may have enhanced my writing. It has certainly enhanced my weirdness.