Treasure Island

Lisa Rhodes

(Born 1962 / Manhattan, New York City)

Don't Let the Lights Go Out On You


At 3 a.m. the water sputters
as the loosely twisted 7 grooved
chromium knobs are turned toward
warm with my sleek swimmers
legs and delicately carved feet shaped
like cling peaches posed in recline.

I sit with my long brown disheveled
hair hovering over my half mast
eyes in a blue tub. I pray for
an end to this volcanic
morning where I have had to
fight silently sick and apathetic

while almost metamorphisizing
into a fallen angel
plummeting from a spiteless
death. I want desperately
to wake into a refreshing mist
flowing from the electric tar-

paper covered well that
scrounges water from
beneath aged rocks
and that had once courageously
hidden my wounded sweet black
cat crouched and scared

under its' roof.
Am I so far away from
the stiff cotton clouds that drag
me deeper into old age, past
this eternity and back into
centuries millions of years ago?

I awaken in a dream that prettily
paints only modern luxuries.
I can't imagine that this yellow
stucco house that I have
lived in has grown old.
I can only remember this

as I listen to its withered
water pipes cough deeply,
then choke and sputter dry.
I like the sound: a fight
aghast for breath, as I linger
in its' shadows that

need me to see and feel
anger, so as the lights
went dead, my aunt's revenge
was dancing in my head.

Submitted: Friday, November 09, 2007
Edited: Saturday, April 23, 2011

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Comments about this poem (Don't Let the Lights Go Out On You by Lisa Rhodes )

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  • Chris Mendros (11/9/2007 12:51:00 AM)

    The first stanza drew me in at the most basic level, but the tension built, and there was something more coming into view.
    The swirl of uneven images dropped your vision onto my lap, and before i knew it, you had successfully moved a fully erected house into my mind.
    Not sure if it's a plea for help, a warning, or a celebration of madness, but it works for me.
    Nice work. (Report) Reply

Read all 1 comments »

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