"This is when I see my mother unstrap her dress ..."

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Juliette recommends these on line literary sites.

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Juliette

In Steps I Take Behind Zöe Gaze

It's not the crucifix in the kitchen of Zöe Gaze.
Her swing of a padded hammer on the head

of a wall mounted nail. Her perfect home.
It's not through the tiny third-to-the-right

window that crops the motion of her slope
in undress beneath the low-speed ceiling fan.

Rather, it's in the pace she thumbs over God's
words to repray verses framed behind the stroke

of a loud, pink pen. Song Of Songs chapter 8, verses 8 -10.
It's in her coal turns of boyish hair, symmetric stretch

of cheekbone, pale progress of breasts that gather dust
in curves of blown glass when she stands nude on black

and white bathroom tile-the entire morning she bribes
the moon with her slick pubescence to reset its black

sail and hide another day. This is when I see my mother
unstrap her dress ahead of steps I take behind Zöe Gaze.






Reflections Of A Resurrected Glass Girl

Made of glass, I reflect on death
and celebration in the palm of God.

I know the truth about the bullet
hole in the forehead of Christ.
I know the assassin and the gun.
I know the time of death, the bite
on God's tongue. I was crucified
at Calvary in place of God's son.

Between thieves everything
was salt and fire: my weight,
the reach of nails, their carve
and slow stretch in my wrist.
There was too much silence.
Too much white. Like a cloud's
middle had replaced my eyes.
My heart stopped without slowing.
My stained glass body collapsed
into a small wind. Into a sculpture
of tossed stars. Into the urine
at the foot of the cross. I settled
on the grass into a mound of sharp
reflections. Into a message for God -
the last breath of Christ reached me.

Before his odd death. Before he was
shot unstrapping torch six. I reflected
Christ's celebration. His new seeds
and served mercy. The sinners
saved behind the garden walls:

A painter in the trees spoke,It is
bright tonight, reflected stars
in fruit skins and coined holy=white.
In the garden's new center the aged
waded to the tempo of fountains.
A German man with kid gloves craned
like a swan, his whores knifed
their lace and dressed the narrow
thieves who photographed limbs.
Two American murderers danced
like leaves on water in a loop
of wind. Demons were sighted,
blue and pink and on their knees
in celebration of forgiveness.
Fine tweed lined a long table
and chairs. A feast for the world
and sin. Tonight was for everyone.
Christ's mercy would be served.
The ice and fire would begin.
Solomon called in the donkeys.
Food was strapped on their sides
in satin and Egyptian cloth.
Nefertiti shined. She stroked mint
pacifiers lined by language
to the table's end. A Russian monk
spoke to a sunflower, It is fire
tonight, and leaned back to twirl
his knuckle in the moon's paint.
Food was passed from left to right;
turkey, tiger, and colorful wings.
Shy dead stepped from the shadows
with their collarbones of beauty.
Their show of teeth in compassion.

In a flood of sapphire and dust. In my echo
of Christ and my drop of blood speeding up.
In the crack above my brow, sin died.

Christ stepped from the garden to collect
the ten torches around the garden's wall.
The celebration calmed and he laughed
with its ambience of voices: the dead
joking with the Roman soldiers, dances,
lepers spilling paint on the dress
of roses. He debated the world's end
with a quick dream - the indifference
of a sting of fire to a sting of ice
in the heart of everything. Everything
was saved so he walked on. To his side
he saw God wade with a school of fawn
and invent lime on the river's oxbow.
He reached the sixth torch with a smile
to his father. With the fingers of a child
in a room of flowers Christ unstrapped
the leather knot on the torch stem.
It thundered. He could not hear his father
weep until his words disappeared. Until
I aimed and shot the bullet from the cross.

Juliette is imaginary, my real name is Andrew Gresham. I started using the name as a simple pseudonym at a poetry forum (the Gazebo) I often visit (although I have not had a chance to visit lately.) What started as a simple moniker soon became much more to me. Juliette as a character began to interact with the poetry, appear in it herself. Writing 'in' her voice was very interesting for me, not simply because she is female, but more so in the fact that she helped free up my voice. What once started as a simple way to disguise myself on a forum (and receive more unbiased commentary on my work,) turned into something more personal to the work. As I mentioned in her bio, I enjoy the idea of creating settings and placing characters in them with a mix of fact and the fantastic -- here I had the poet as a character commanding her own world, myself acting as the director, so to speak, of a series of films starring her. (But I must admit, she directed me, as much as I ever directed her.)

Editors Note:

I had asked Andrew for Juliette's poetry before I knew Juliette was one of his characters. And I decided to keep the work in the women's issue for two reasons. One, the Internet is often thought of as a place where, if people hide their identities, it is assumed they are up to no good, whereas Andrew's usage of a pseudonym was very different in its motivation. I was very active in the Gazebo community when Andrew was writing as Juliette. Juliette took criticism graciously, gave it professionally, and was perceived by all of us to be a wonderful addition to our writing group. As Juliette, I never felt that Andrew abused the right to wear a pseudonym.

Two, once I learned the truth about Juliette, I thought Andrew's writing done in her voice was an intriguing example of one way 'being female' can affect one's writing -- very specific in this case to the media in which we are all communicating, and one of the few upsides I am aware of in the anonymity it affords us. I'd be curious to know how many of you had an idea you were reading work not written by a woman, until you reached this explanation at the end.