The Rose Red Lament

A poem by Julia R. DeStefano

The Juliette balcony — York, Maine

The Rose Red Lament

One day, Hans came by and heard Arabelle singing her loneliness -

drawn to a tune so distinctly her.

You always read about it.

This is the place where I sit,

penning a tale altogether too familiar

in the company of the moon.

These are the trembling fingers that grasp the pen,

fingers that were wrapped around you

in silent plea that you might

take back the book -

I’m tired of balancing it on my head.

Strip me of this part I can play no longer

when I’m just the film noir femme fatale

perched atop the desk,

desirous to get the plot moving

as you breathe roses into my hair.

Oh, to thrill a man to love -

let feeling good

be all I want

as the book falls to the ground!

© Julia R. DeStefano