Marie C Lecrivain








The Waxing Moon


The fear within is a lobster-clawed crustacean with a penchant for scarlet corsets who likes to snip off bits of my scabby heart at 3 am, right when the other part of me, the most girly of unicorns, emerges from my rib cage. Light and free, she floats above my bed, and wonders why I won’t take her advice on how to wear my hair, or which mutual funds to invest. She smiles at my restless form and lays a cool horn to my forehead to calm my fevered dreams.

Under the light of a waxing moon these two enjoy a meal of ambrosia and martinis. They discuss my latest developments and complain about the poor quality of service in this area of the astral plain. Ms. Scarlet Lobster clacks her claws in time to Ms. Tipsy Unicorn’s hiccups, which amuse her until Ms T.U. tries to impale Ms S.L. with her horn, falls out of her chair, and cracks her head on the pavement.

« I warned…hic …you… Stop…hic …that… »

« I warned you. You can’t hold your ambrosia. »

« I… hic …know… »

They check each other for damages, and finding none, pay their bill (leave a lousy tip), and repair back to my room. As the dawn peeks over the horizon, they nod goodbye to each other and dissolve into my unconscious. Per usual, when I wake up, I’ll wonder why my breath reeks of vodka, but it won’t matter. This is the day I look forward to, where the dichotomy is banished, if only for a moment, and I can draw one unified breath… and then another… and another…
©  2016 marie c lecrivain




The Deep Time


Somewhere unforgiven,

time will wait for you. (Beck)


These are the voices you ignore, that resonate in the marrow with guilty vibrations, tickle the cochlea with a featherweight fingertip, throw you off balance, and introduce your stubborn chin to the sandpaper edge of uneven sidewalk.

The sky overhead fills with cumulus clouds as you lie spread-eagled in nonplussed repose searching the backs of your eyelids for that last shred of dignity. Be assured; these are the days where people walk around you, a stone in the path of their already too-crowded workday. No one will give a damned, except the occasional pathetic with a cellphone camera who’ll immortalize on Instagram.

And still, you lay face-down while the microbes left behind from so many people’s shoes start to migrate from the ground through your shredded skin and into your bloodstream. Are you up to date on your vaccinations? As quickly as it appeared, this thought dissolves as the tsunami of deep time rises from the depths of the most forgotten part of your personal abyss, rides the storm wreck of your soul, and smashes against the wall of your subconscious…


It hurts… truly…


Now is the time closely examine the treasure revealed: bright shards of memory dimly sparkle in the waning light of your divine spark…


Did you eat my lunch?

No. It was the new guy.


Slender thighs beckon from underneath her short skirt.


I’m only human!

She’s totally asking for it.


A puppy’s bulging eyes plead as the soft implosion of a hyoid bone concaves to the increasing crush of a six-year-old thumb.

His nasal voice, so thin and irritating.

Son… I want to go home.

The rank smell of hospital.

You walk away.


You open your eyes. The cleansing patter of rain beats against your skull. Get up, dust the recriminations off your coat lapels, wipe the blood from your chin, hold the head a bit higher than before.

For now, you’re safe.

Don’t worry.

Those voices will come back.


©  2014 marie lecrivain

(previously published in The Bicycle Review, 2014)




In the bonds of Qliphoth


You want to know where they are?

They are not with us. If we can get what we want,

we know where they are, we will get them,


(Boko Haram Commander, on the missing 200 girls, “Vice” 2/5/16)



On screen, devolution happens in real time.

A throaty chuckle precedes your boast,

and I’m fascinated by the horrific grin

the blur can’t quite mask.

It was astute of you to request anonymity.

The journalist, caught between expose,

and that other ancient instinct

to protect the heart’s treasure,

has the good sense to sit – and be silent.



There’s no true moral compass by

which to measure you. Evolution has given us

the same accouterments, and I try to take

into account your possible formative years

– child of war and chaos – pure hell

Imprinted on you at the moment

you drew that first shaky breath

and tasted death.  What could I know

of the forces and dogma that shaped you

into a harbinger who regards all those

outside your brotherhood,

with no exceptions – the enemy?



No. This rationalization has not dissolved

my disgust. I must be truthful; there’s hatred

in my heart, a common thread between us.

The image of you blasted down to a bit of bone,

a bloody stain on the earth … this makes me smile.


We are brothers,

beasts to the very end.


I hope you die first.



© 2016 marie c lecrivain











Bio: Marie C Lecrivain is an editor, photographer, and writer-in-residence at her apartment. Her work has been published in various journals, including Nonbinary Review, Poetry Salzburg Review,  A New Ulster, and many others. Her newest collection of poetry, Philemon’s Gambit, will be published in Summer 2016 by International Word Bank Press.

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