by Robin Dawn Hudechek

I walk secluded beaches,
my robes flowing around my legs.
Only here do I unwind the cloth that binds
my hair. Only here do I lift my eyes.
The clouds are as lovely and fearless
in their shifting colors when I look at them
as they will be the day I am released,
the day I am gone.

I would like you to take my hand.
Close your eyes if you have to
when snakes wind around your neck.
In their slow and calming hiss
there is love in all of their heads,
for the one who will pause
to admire the beauty in my face
my lithe body, my seamless walks
through forests. Take my hand, I beg you.
Walk with me. Talk with me
about the blackberries you picked
from the field behind your home.
Offer them to me in handfuls,
tell me stories of their planting and growing,
of the sun I rarely see.
Kiss me, cup my cold breasts in your hands.
Let the blackberries flow scarlet
from your fingers to my lips.
Close your eyes if you have to.

IMAGE: Medusa mosaic (Roman, 2nd-3rd Century).

Robin Hudechek1

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Robin Dawn Hudechek received her MFA in Creative Writing, poetry at UCI, and has taught writing at the university and college level for eleven years. Her poems have appeared in numerous publications, including Caliban, Cream City Review, Blue Arc West: An Anthology of California Poets, Cadence Collective: Year One Anthology, Gutters and Alleyways: Perspectives on Poverty and Struggle, and in Ghost Walk, a chapbook. Currently, she is compiling her first full-length collection of poems.