Dark Lady Poetry - Dylan C. Lewis

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Dylan C. Lewis

When theGypsy Women Come

Urban legend has it

they come every summer

to our suburban neighborhood,

descending like locusts

or some other plague

from the Old Testament.

My wife demands

we change our locks,

as I plead with her

that they do not have a key

in the first place. I fancy

them far more romantic

than dangerous; colorful scarves

serpentine in black coal hair

framing Red Delicious cheeks.

Magenta knee socks peek out

from long layered skirts,

covering a thief’s thigh,

which I will never see

but playfully muse

the possibility that one

may steal my chaste thoughts,

throw them in the back

of her covered wagon

and ride away to the tune

of wind chimes and horses’ hooves.

A Love Poem for the Colored Help

She is delicate

likethe algae green sheath

of budding spring grass

rising from mushroom manure.

She is the weightless hem

on a knee length skirt that ripples

in the wind of spring’s last

storm. When dusk approaches,

she is the elongated shadow

gently nudging me

from across the room, caressing

my faceless form.

The riddling pitch

of her voice hides wide-eyed

behind corners, like children’s

laughter from an attic playroom.

And it is her foot steps

that signal fresh lemonade

with mint leaves and sing the blues

on this muggy, late summer’s eve.

Lost in the North Side One Year Later

Too many lines converge

as asphalt liquefies under the ghostly horizon.

I can’t hold your hand or pour my emotions

into a travel mug for you to consume

because telephone lines look yellow in the setting sun

and I’m bitter with love. So you focus, driving

like a man chasing a checkered flag –

but your hands aren’t calloused and I would shave my legs

if you wanted to feel something smooth on your palm.

I’m misconstrued in our small cockpit world,

insignificant statements are giant when they echo

off canyons back through your convertible top. My life

and thoughts are no larger than that pinhead of a star

sifting through irrelevance on the brink of pink

clouds. Neither that star, nor I, will ever shine any brighter.

I’ll just hold the map of southern California until we see the next hitchhiker

with a shine box for my manners. He can break the silence

and force us to answer the nagging question of

“what we mean to each other”. Unfamiliarity is a dead give away

that some one is about to prod and prey until they crack you like a clam

and extract your insides.

If I am left disemboweled on the side of the PCH,

small rodents will feed their young

and the hungry waves will usher in the evening fog.

Dylan C. Lewis graduated from Colgate University in 2002 where he majored in English and minored in Creative Writing and African American Studies. He took a year off before pursuing post graduate studies, during which time he tutored under a local poet/professor and began work on a potential manuscript. However, after choosing the legal profession over academia, he attended the Duquesne University School of Law and graduated in 2007. His work has been published in various journals and magazines. His poetry attempts to straddle the dichotomy between intellectualism and accessibility. He currently lives in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.