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FIT AND MISFIT

The sea was there

The first time you touched me

Forcing its embryos

Onto watchful sand that receives

Like an obstetrician

The bloodied release

Inside delivery rooms

Yes,

The sea was there

Birthing

Its curlicue shell-heads

One-eyed tin torsos

And placentaed fish parts

Birthing

Its fit and misfit

Into gritted hands

That quietly accepts

All bleeding, curly heads

And one-eyed children

Welcoming them all

The way I welcome

All of you

Fit and Misfit.






  "The Highwayman" by Loreena McKennitt from The Book of Secrets    The Highwayman lyrics




The romantic poetess, Lace, meandered into my consciousness wearing an ankle length, a-line heather tweed skirt topped by a loose, floral, cotton-lawn blouse. A thick, lilac and lavender, straw-mesh belt enhanced her waistline.

Long blonde hair piled atop her head, Ingénue-style, with wispy curls framing her heart-shaped face, Lace glided in noiselessly, leaving a rosy lavender scent in her wake. Everything about her was quiet, grayed and muted, even her low-heeled, calf-length, cocoa-colored granny boots. Lace did not speak aloud but transferred knowledge about her self through fully formed vignettes, which popped up like a child’s Victorian-era picture book.

The first one was along the Atlantic seaboard coastline. A swirling fog, with rain-swollen clouds, came right down to meet the sea. Lace strolled through the wet November sand with a navy blue cloak dragging along behind her. Its hood hid her face and belled out with the raw, whipping wind. Large horn-rimmed sunglasses covered her eyes.

Barely noticeable, haloed by fog, she was as mysterious and unapproachable as the roiling, foam-capped green waves. Plumbing the depths of Lace would be like trying to plumb the Ocean. Quite a challenge, that! Hers was a slow minded, methodical determination to know all. Ontologically minded, she thrived on philosophies, intuition and poetry. Stiletto-like, all her senses were honed to a rare, raw, cutting edge.

The next vignette showed her picnicking underneath an enormous Magnolia tree in the middle of summer. Lace was on her stomach twirling a gardenia as she watched a darkly handsome, gypsy lover. He was dressed in black pants and an embroidered red vest and was pouring Lace a glass of rosy, Mateus wine. Sans sunglasses now, her large, dreamy eyes were lit from within with a thinly veiled sensuality. The strains of a Celtic harp and flute floated languidly around them.

Lace wore a long baby-blue skirt with a ruffle around its hem and a white Battenberg lace, long-sleeved top with a ruffled neckline. Her visage was one of intense scrutiny hidden behind a placid facial façade. It quickly became adoration when the Gypsy grasped her possessively to him for a mind-squelching, passionate, full-bodied embrace.

A throw back to more melancholic days, Lace showed me her love of all décor and fashions from the Art Nouveau period. Its sensuous ‘S’ curves reminded her of twining, flowering vines and a more gracious time in history when life was slower, more elegant and genteel.

Lace was undoubtedly a Neptunian-ruled Piscean female. It was she who’d visited the library every week since her thirteenth birthday. She loved gothic, historically based novels and classics. She had read, “Wuthering Heights” fifty-six times and was a reincarnation of Heathcliff and Catherine, Heathcliff being her masculine animus.

Author Emily Bronte was her heroine. Lace was totally enamored of the way Emily had cauterized her own dog-bite wound with a heated iron and no one knew of it until she lay dying years later. Her sister, Charlotte, discovered it when she had to dress Emily, after she was too frail to do it for herself. “No coward soul is mine,” wrote Emily Bronte.

 A quiet person, like deep water, often masks unheard-of strengths and unsuspected turmoil. I’ve learned, over the years to treat their kind with great respect. They will retaliate if pushed. They prefer solitude and their own company. You are blessed if given a glimpse into their world.
Leaving behind this poem she’d written, Lace passed away swiftly into the bewitching ethers from which she’d sprung, humming, “Single Petal of a Rose.”