Trance

She is the tune of a violin, exciting the air about her

like a stream pouring from hills crowned in mist –

slowly, quietly; a gentle presence like a lovely ghost.

 

She reverberates in the firelight with eyes like almonds.

Her gaze pours into me like Niagara into a cave

until the dam closes, she is gone, and I am awake.

 

She is a white moonlit gown hung on an open windowpane,

haunting me as silver rays filter through the lace.

Her shadow passes over the floorboards. I look; nothing.

 

My vision of her wavers like a meadow in autumn’s breath.

I can see the wind-waves in the bronze grass, but of her

I find only footprints and crystallized laughter in the soil.

 

She resonates the fibers binding my spirit to sinew,

like a cello played between the final second of a day,

and the first of the next. I watch the second hand,

 

entranced.

Agape

There are no windows here,

or, if you prefer, all are windows.

Continuous glass, crystal walls –

airy barriers between the inside and out.

 

Telephone, in the back room, by the lamp.

A new voice in the receiver;

sounding like Christmas when he was young.

 

(I am wholly undeveloped; my arms

are still reaching for the surface.)

I am glad I am not here alone.

 

Ice has been forming on the panes.

Outside it is winter, like a postcard

from family now living abroad.

I press my cheek against the glass,

if only to remind myself of their faces.

 

What are we if not a single body?

Who are we if not a bride?

When we’ve finally stepped outside,

bare feet in the melting snow, we’ll see,

there never were windows to begin with.

Outside is all we were,

all we’ll ever be.

Waking to an Open Window

O! For the wide, white nights of the far North!

The warm breath of earth tinged with flowers

falling from the leaves that ousted them.

The ground white with Bradford’s pear blossoms,

reflecting nights that never truly dim to darkness.

 

And we lay on a carpet of clovers,

violet with the vibrancies of new life.

 

What is this world set on stone and soil,

fringed by cloud and outer oceans of vacuum?

If I were to feel the entire heartbeat

of the universe at large, would I

 

be less awed by that white heartbeat of yours,

beating violet in the clover beside me?

Iris Blooms

I’m told she had green eyes, but I can’t tell

by the face forever frozen in black and white.

 

I tried to take a step beyond the glass once,

but the frame held me in place, making faces.

 

Eyes hover over broken surfaces like mirrors,

but what is a soul when it’s set on the mantelpiece?

 

Her lips never move, though I’m sure they spoke

as often as my own, but her eyes follow me.

 

Springtime. The frame is grass and irises and the

glass is far enough to ignore, but for bent sunlight.

 

I take the photo into the air that breathes itself.

Look me in the eyes if you want to see in color.

Mwen Remnen Ou

On the other side of the glass is a desert.

We press our face to the window, aching,

dying to dance with the sand in the wind.

And hold the half-sized hands

scarred by thorns and God knows what else;

Squeeze them once more.

We wish.

 

An earthquake shakes our insides and the glass breaks.

Stained glass children step out to see

blanc faces; we clasp and swing

in a dizzying dance, muddying the shades of our skin,

skipping and finally releasing

tearful shrieks of laughter, teeth clenched.

Lost in a confusion of twisted limbs,

the very sinews of our selves entangle

with those of children who will be gone next year.

 

Refuse and sweat boiling in tropic heat

couldn’t be sweeter, we think.

 

Two years pass and even yet the sand clings to our boots,

dancing and singing, just as before.

Only, some days, it’s still as glass.

Anchorage

This is somewhat of an attempt at prose poetry. Hope you like it!

The lurch of the impact left the tattered wood into my feet up to my chattering teeth. Cold, wet with rain and eyes distant from watching endless horizons of wave after wave, I fell to the deck of my skiff – shipwrecked on your reef and hung up on your shoal. I dropped anchor to cover up my shame and convince passers-by that I’d meant to visit your waters. And so I’m left to lie on this weathered, waterlogged deck, squinting my eyes as the raindrops beat against them, and I watch the squall pass; despite my haggard disposition, I look forward to grasping the sand of your shores and feeling solidity once again. Or else, my feet may meet only hard stone existing rather than thriving above the waves. Regardless, welcome or not, I am here and here to stay. Love me or hate me; I allow no middle ground – but you can only hate so much as you love.

The Morning I Changed the Linens

When she came back, my organs

were still draped with white sheets,

like the tables and chairs and sofas

of the wealthy on vacation. I lay

dormant – my head on the pillow

watching the crucifix on the wall

to see if it moved of its own accord.

She didn’t call out in greeting;

it was the crack of fabric as she

shook the dust from the sheets

that told me she’d returned.

 

Sighing deeply the deadened air,

I walked into dust dancing in the sun,

and she sat in the midst of it all –

a goddess of light with legs crossed

and eyes and lips flashing a smile.

Swallowing the flying dust, I stood

unmoving, unwilling to approach.

The white sheets lay crumpled in

a corner where she’d discarded them

with disgust – what use are they

when the mistress has returned?

 

At least, so she thought, I imagine.

And thus she sat, content, smiling,

looking over my unkempt hair

and haggard look the way an artist

looks over a piece that didn’t quite

work out. I stood silent long enough

for the dust to settle, and I saw the

crucifix now hung in this room.

She tapped the place beside her

on the sofa, blue eyes thirsting for

my presence, and I stepped to her.

 

Her chest swelled with lovelust

until I passed her into the corner

where I picked up the white sheets.

She saw my intent and held my wrist.

I closed my eyes as if in pain. Gently

putting aside her hand, I covered

the furniture in white, my lips taut.

My world once again lying hidden,

I saw her to the door. “I am not yours.”

The Night the Power Went Out

She spun the gold band and diamond around her ring finger,

watching it as if the words she sought were in the jewel.

I tapped my foot and extinguished a candle as the last

of the wax dripped onto the envelope she’d just given me –

the envelope from her fiancé, letting me know.

Finally letting me know that she’d never be mine.

“You know”, she said, looking up, “I’d have left him for you

and it could have been your ring, not his, on my finger.”

I placed a new candle in the melted wax of the old

and let it grow cold, and harden. I didn’t respond.

“If only you’d have asked me to, I’d have been yours.”

Lighting the new candle, I heard a gasp behind me,

where she was. Turning, I saw the tears, each like diamonds

identical to the one he gave her. “Why didn’t you ask?”

I swallowed the diamonds in my throat, put the candle down

between us and lit it, lighting the face I’d loved for years.

I could never trust a girl who’d leave one man for another,

and I told her so, and I saw her to the door and said,

“I could never trust you.” She left, and I lit candles.

Seed in the Snow

When I step near the sparrows, they prance,

rather than fly away, as if to say I’m not afraid,

            but I don’t trust you.

Getting on my knees so they can see

my eyes, I call their bluff: so soon as intimacy

drops from my hands, the beating of wings

replaces the songs they sung and I am breathing

            steam alone into the snow.

And so I sit, casting seed regardless, because I know:

should the birds not feed, there plants will grow;

birds with flighty hearts in winter never stay,

but rooted trees, despite pain, storms and the axe,

            will always remain.