Marisa Silva-Dunbar – Page 2 – Fevers of the Mind

Coins for Charon I. You ignored her for three months, if you hadn’t, it would’ve brought war between us—I kept constant guard and never wanted you to know. Confessions are pouring out of me. You say there is no meaning in the attention you give her now—she isn’t coming back; you won’t let her, but she’s a rotting seed you planted in me. You let her presence grow—didn’t cut her out to save me. If you wanted her gone, you would’ve removed her from the root—crushed her leaves beneath your foot. II. This is how Persephone died— poisoned on the table after performing a self surgery to pull the festerous Minthe from her belly; using all her strength to quell the destructive and foolish nymph. She’ll never know if Hades left coins for Charon resting on her eyes as she faded into oblivion. One last message for Hades I’ve swallowed my own form of poison—take a scalpel to me; dissect and see if any enchantments remain. I can’t stop myself from spilling some sort of prayer over you even in these liminal spaces; you need to find the incantations and magick that sleep in your bones without splitting your own skin. If I had the same curse as Kilgrave, a simple suggestion would cease any of your favorite forms of self-destruction. or if I was Our Lady of the Trees, whatever seeds I planted around you—would sprout and heal your hurt. Persephone Reborn In the anatomical theatre, I was the cadaver on the table —chalk white and empty of body fluids. No one remembered who I was before the leeches and bloodletting—they said all the old gods were dead. In absentia—on the edge of consciousness, I dreamt I was packed with sand and pebbles—growing succulents, the only plants I could produce through bone and muscle—a body barely worth returning to. What magic was left in me? Who would want a Goddess of Spring, only useful in the unchanging desert? Death always has a job—even if the title is ever changing; he is honored out of fear. You should’ve known he despises a life without me, that he would find a way to cultivate a garden to grow within me. He filled my torso with peonies, and gardenias; placed chrysanthemums in my heart so that it pulsed with color. He gently planted narcissus in my throat and palms; his own way of calling and clinging to me. Waking, I tasted him in my blood, could smell his familiar scent as if I had never left—it was inevitable he’d find a way to bring me home. Bio: Marisa Silva-Dunbar's work has been published in ArLiJo, Chanterelle's Notebook, Pink Plastic House, Sledgehammer Lit, Analogies & Allegories Literary Magazine. She has work forthcoming in The Bitchin' Kitsch. Her second chapbook, "When Goddesses Wake," was released in December, 2021 from Maverick Duck Press. Her first full-length collection, "Allison," was recently published by Querencia Press. You can find her on Twitter and Instagram @thesweetmaris. To check out more of her work go to www.marisasilvadunbar.com A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Marisa Silva-Dunbar

Dear Ava Gardner,

I worry I will never be a woman like you.
I have not mastered the breathy pitch nor
The come hither drawl that slipped between
Your ruby shined lips

I am no femme fatale,
no temptress in a slinky black dress.
I wish the red lacquer stayed on my
nails, that I’d never bite them or scrape off
the polish. And I feel like such a child
when I see photos of you, only 20
perfectly put together, already
hourglass, dewy skin and bee-stung lips
deliciousness.

But you were still more—dancing away the night
in Spain, seducing bullfighters with those
dangerous eyes. The smirk of a woman
who beat a self proclaimed chess master
the first time you played a game. His ego
was so bruised he never played you again.

Cellophane and Dismay
for Mel

Early March—I felt like petals unfurled
in my ventricles and atria. Bouquets
of brightly colored flowers, burst
through my chest. I am opening—
blossoming with purgation.

I welcomed you with offerings
of Olea europaea cradled near my waist.
Come let’s shed a feud ruled by an empty man.

II.
Your best friend said I haunted your thoughts too
during that Denver November. I was not alone
on the qui vive—rivals for someone who didn’t
know how to love. To anyone who would ask—

he was your former paramour, both of you volatile
elements exploding when you soaked your skin
in vodka and beer on lonely nights. But those moments
were long distance—I was a witness, lying next to him
when his phone would shine with your 5AM messages,
3AM calls—and these mushroomed into the pandemic
meadow of 2020, two years beyond the few months
you said you were the black mold in the corner of the room.

That facade is eternally fragile, and decaying.

III.
I foolishly thought this would be more than a frigid peace—
that candor would flow like honey from the hive on late a June
or early July afternoon. That we could both be children
finding sagacity under the full Strawberry moon.

Astral Influencer

I am the daughter of the messenger god;
the Moirai have sent me to untangle the threads
in your hand. You like to stall when you must undo
the knots you create; fear a life without turmoil.

You tell everyone you are chaos in a martini glass,
encourage them to watch you spill on asphalt,
on canvas, on your ex’s sweat covered dirty duvet.
Pretend your drool is really his glittery cum—
your audience eagerly awaits the peep show.

None of this is original; it rained starseeds
into your mind. I tend to my garden nightly—
as they sprout in the soil of your dreams;
even then some buds shrivel or rot.

Now I am tasked with delivering your next idea
to your hotel room. I place the Eight of Wands
in your palm as you wait for your newest paramour
to pour you champagne. Take the journey of 500
miles; design your life—watch the yarn unravel
flow freely into yonder. This was always going to happen.

A Fresh Start

We drunk poison from the lips of those we love—
looked into the vast horizon at lives
that had only been mirages in the afternoon sun.

Let’s start a side business
as fortune tellers for the end of the world.
We’ll read palms on the beach,
trapped in an eternal sunset,
the sky rose-gold—forever on fire.

Lovers will still want to know
what stars connect—if they are bound
by the constellations or devoured by
black holes at the edge of the universe.

Watch the heavens melt like molten lava.
Hold my hand as we stand on the brink
of the Autumn Apocalypse, waiting to be devoured.

Bio: Marisa Silva-Dunbar's work has been published in Better Than Starbucks Magazine, Chantrelle's Notebook and Pink Plastic House. Marisa is the co-editor of the anthology "Kirstofia." She has work forthcoming in Sledgehammer Lit Mag, and The Daily Drunk Mag. You can find her on Twitter and Instagram @thesweetmaris. You can find more of her work at www.marisasilvadunbar.com .

2nd bio: Marisa is a Latina poet from the Southwest. Receiving an M.A. in Poetry from the University of East Anglia. Marisa also has work published in IceFloe Press, Mineral Lit Mag, Rising Phoenix Review, and Ghost Heart Lit.

Bio: Marisa Silva-Dunbar's work has been published in ArLiJo, Chanterelle's Notebook, Pink Plastic House, Sledgehammer Lit, Analogies & Allegories Literary Magazine. She has work forthcoming in The Bitchin' Kitsch. Her second chapbook, "When Goddesses Wake," was released in December, 2021 from Maverick Duck Press. Her first full-length collection, "Allison," was recently published by Querencia Press. You can find her on Twitter and Instagram @thesweetmaris. To check out more of her work go to www.marisasilvadunbar.com

A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Marisa Silva-Dunbar

3 re-published poems by Marisa Silva-Dunbar : A Poetry Showcase

Tag: Marisa Silva-Dunbar

3 re-published poems by Marisa Silva-Dunbar : A Poetry Showcase

Poetry Showcase: 4 poems by Marisa Silva-Dunbar