A Little Piece of Heaven and Other Poems

By Fabrice Poussin

A Little Piece of Heaven

Late by the dimming spark of an abandoned candle
she stumbled upon pieces of other people’s memories
buried deep at the foot of her forgotten attic
celebrated by shrouds of ancestral dust.

Soon she found herself outside of time
sitting in her little girl’s summer dress
as she might in a formal gown to an ancient ball
entering a palace made for glorious damsels.

Before her, old postcards bearing secret codes
encyclopedias to the dearly departed
her soul begins to smile as she understands
connections to those who made her world.

A postmark from another continent
ominous years when humanity collapsed
wounds transported across oceans
to the quiet hearth of her young refuge.

Letters preciously preserved within beds
of pastel sheets dormant for decades
speak to her in the tongue of dreams
warm with the sounds of a long dynasty.

Pioneers, warriors, lost migrants on a terrifying island
she hears the pitches of their words, laughter and tears
alive in the little paradise she made
the voice of Heaven surrounds her.

City Desert

As if a hurricane has struck 
in the midst of the excited crowd 
a turbulent wave came like a tsunami
to leave no trace behind. 

They arrived as a wholesome herd
summer transients in their uniforms
of southern hues upon the peaceful hill
busy with every moment to make a change. 

Stars shone upon these parade
reflecting bright sparks upon the rainy paths
until days of dense hours overtook the somber shadows
watchful over those fragile little lives. 

Clamors still resonate all around 
yet they were gone in an instant 
sleepy hearts during the heights of June
they ride to other climes full of memories. 

The vacant lot stretches for miles 
close to infinity in its loneliness 
where naught remains of the noisy carnival
no candy paper nor forgotten half-emptied soda cans. 

Ruler over the realm his private home
he still recalls the coming of the crowds
eager to laugh, gleeful to play, joyful to be
and for that a warm year comforts his life.

Her Image in the Mist

Images of what she may be float before his soul
slender as she ventures into the wild
of darkened avenues at midday.

The lips always bear what appears a gentle joy
she turns back for a last glimpse
of a moment just forgotten.

An icy breeze fills the void of her absence
air twirls with the power of a sculptor
and a humanoid mold appears.

Alone in the multitude of this universe
he stands desperate for another sight
perhaps the aroma of her essence.

A fantasy etched within the walls of his fancies
she haunts his thoughts as she does his fibers
ever present to comfort eternal fears.

Her soul pierces to the depth of his being
with every glance through the night
and the last breaths of his days. 

House of Decay

It is another strange morning 
for the lady in the uniform 
of the universal servant.

Oblivious to the stage set
she knows all she must do 
is erase a late night’s memories 

High above the realm her abode
in the luxury of so much wasted space
she has journeyed as a stranger

and cleansed all signs of debauchery
left on a floor littered with white sprinkles
reeking of nauseating moments.

She witnessed none of the glee yet
the walls still resonate with the excitement
of a mob abandoned to its meek senses.

Her only thoughts gravitate to her true home
somewhere in forgotten suburbs
so close to the street she may feel safe.

She will never eradicate those tenacious
spots on a quilt bequeathed by an ancestor
stained by her first or was it third child.

But she feels warmth inside her breast
in the sterility of this bleached out world
as she breathes only the air of her own world.

She Belongs to the Words

Paints say little about the model in her soul
Arabesques flourish in the gentle trace of her curves
As she paints the first letter to another sister.

She cares little for frozen moments on a camera plane
Continually altering the vision of her moving figure
Dancing on the page, marking parchment with her life.

All the thoughts she exhales are in shiny China ink
Reflecting on the walls of days only she may define
One line borne of the mist of a precious dawn.

Her story floats within the hours since all beginnings
Puerile as it was on the birth of a fresh galaxy
Syllables beat steadily at the rhythm of her passion.

She is flesh yet only for a moment given to all her kin
Illusion to the one who can only see proof of her being
A body surged from the perfection of fashion magazines.

Never will she cease to be to the dreamer seeking a muse
For she belongs to the words speaking the treasures she is
Endlessly even in the darkness of infinite oblivion. 

She is, and continues in this essential journey alone
Gentle to the air ethereal realm her accomplice
For all times printed onto the memory of the universe.

Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and many other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications.