Poets of SMITTEN Speak: Melissa Fadul

I had lost a female friend (catholic.) She had been assumed to be in a lesbian relationship. She drove to Conneticut and never returned. Her partner, appeared, distraught. Disturbed with how she had been presented by the church. Odd,
in the folk group we all sang in…to see Dawn dismissed as though, she had been a stick figure on a chalkboard. ‘How could Dawn leave without any real reason for leaving? Persecution for her beliefs? My young heart never understood or knew for sure.
Dawn remains a missing person. The police called it…a mental health issue. The church dismissed it all. As if Dawn never occurred. Her lover moved on full knowing that…lesbians do not have an account. That women who love women are just something to be disregarded.  @randomwordbyruth

TheFeatheredSleep

Melissa Fadul lives in New York with her wife, dog and two rabbits. She teaches English Literature and Advanced Placement Psychology.  She loves animals, poetry, and film and photography and baseball and screenwriting. Melissa is currently writing her second poetry manuscript and a screenplay.  Melissa hopes that someday she can work with her favorite actresses: Naomi Watts, Rachel Weisz, Cate Blanchett and Mariska Hargitay.

Is the Die Really Cast?

I was a sophomore and part of GLU (the gay and lesbian union as it was called then) getting my undergraduate degree in New York and two years younger than twenty-one-year-old Matthew Shepard, when barbed wire pierced his wrists as he was pinned to a fence on a chilly October evening. After his assailants, Aaron McKinney and Russell Henderson thumped his skull, dented it, they stole his shoes and wallet before running him over in a pick-up truck— leaving him for…

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Sleeping with Valor’s Retreat

There are lines to this scarcity.

Hidden obstacles filled with joyless doubt.

Now that I am in…the dead air is coming out!

A covert world we all must go thru…

and, the question remains…

‘Will I have the courage to go without you?’

The grass beaded with dew and the…aromatic earth…

does not quench my soul as it used to.

Lying and dying have become art forms.

A certain style giving unto…laughing…crying.

Courage in the blinding light of day can whisk the unthinkable webs away.

Nonetheless, the night…with its sporadic fits of sleep…

Still begs for valor’s retreat.

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Minding Mushrooms

The fight remains in the hand tossed rubble and rubbish.

Hope…in the ache that wakes.

Not paradise up close and focus tight.

But by innate tapestry under the sun’s light.

No treading a path beyond fine.

The superfluous for the mind.

to Listen…Again

It is so quiet on the hill.

You can hear the crickets yawn and the grasshoppers stretch.

The ravens above echo, silence, such a simple thing.

It is so quiet on the hill.

You can hear the squirrels chew and the chipmunks sigh.

It is in these moments, I learn to listen…again.

to Tinker and Wane

As the shade ebbs and flows.

Tinkers and wanes.

There is a playful game.

Herein lies the difference between the ground below.

And, the time that flies above.

So careful in its place…maple leaf on a breezy chase.

The punctured weeds…not a trace of milky embrace.

Cat O’ 9, growing tired from the punishment.

Resting wearily with the sun at its back.

Before the winds came there had been a pact.

Be small, be torn, but take heed of the facts.

There are no wars to be won…

surrounded by tinted glass.

Fife Farm, Franklin NH