The Tomato-coloured Couch 7:20pm
The Fall Of Joanna Gilman Hyde
Has Been My Greatest Climb
I’ve Found The Words I’ve Needed To Use
& Boy I’ve Made Them Chime
note: Death of Mother, Elizabeth Walden Hyde, March 27th, 1993
The Tomato-coloured Couch 5:50pm
I’m having a flash-back
back to when I was in
My Mother’s Womb — I knew then
I’d be a stocky blond
in red sneakers & a white gym suit
on The Roof of # 5 World Trade Center
& grow up to marry well
twice-over —
I knew then I would harbour
within the duration of My Existence
a pulling enticement
which when met
would give birth
to the ultimate contraction
between
young & old
&
I would live & die
in
one
moment
The Hawk Kitchen 2:59pm
an immobilized fly
knows no secrets
adhering, somehow, to the outside
of My Living Room Window
— I thought He was a spy —
when I wanted to write
“What Do I Most
Want To Say –“
and for Whom?
“For My Self”
— I saw He had died —
The Tomato-coloured Couch 6:11pm
I am dripping in Diamonds
oozing Gold from every pore
radiating Silver with My widest reach
My Words carry
My Weight
When I die
I will be entombed
with
My Endless Scrawl
at
My
Feet
The Hawk West Desk Window 4:11pm
ICONIC POWER:
WESTERN FEMININE APPEAL
COLLIDES WITH ISLAM
The Tomato-coloured Couch 1:22pm
Dressed in My Silver Robe
I have Windexed My Dining Room
Table
to lay My Self out
drawn & quartered
for The Sake Of Humanity —
I was born out of Desolation, Depression
Death
to arrive at This Juncture
between the last Two Thousand Years
& the next
The Hawk Dining Room 9:26pm
The Sky Is Leaded Silver
The Ocean Molten
After The First Snowfall
Of Any Import
My Car Is Facing East
To Melt The Remainder
Of What I’ve Brushed
Ready To Go Mail
My Son’s Birthday Card
The Tomato-coloured Couch 7:41pm
My Husband has given up
on trying to talk any sense
into Me.
He claims He no longer has any opinion
on what psychiatric diagnosis
might be responsible for My Skewered Reality.
He claims He will never speak again
of His Theory as to why I latched on
to a Little Scottish Doctor four days after
My Mother Died:
His Fifteen-year-old Theory that I had a symbiotic relationship
with My Mother, transferred onto The Little Man.
That My Husband may never discuss this subject again
should be a relief to Me
yet I find My Self in the foulest of moods.
Maybe I am getting
a menopausal period.
The Tomato-coloured Couch 5:55pm
He & I are Black Jesus
crawling out of The Depths
of filth & squalor
out of Lies & Untruths
clawing Our Way Out
of The World Today, Tonight
into The Sublime
of misunderstood Union
The Hawk West Desk Window 10:44pm
The First Dying Rose
Taken From Eliza’s Bedroom Bouquet —
petals too limp to dry —
Its Russet Pink Still Enthralling —
Stands Upright In My Bathroom
waste basket
Joanna Gilman Hyde 