Wiles of Starlight

She has wrists like birds’ claws,
too thin to lift her red bracelets.
I think of snapping twigs.

Like a swan searching for
serenity lost,
she perches on chair arms
and davenports.

Wings clipped, tail-feathers pulled,
she smiles as if the expression
can banish fears
and uncontrolled realities.

Her lips are dry as scattered leaves;
her eyes are timid, watchful, speaking things
quietly wild.

Once, she was strong.

Now, she cannot hear me say,
“I love you—you’re beautiful—don’t do this.”

It will not be tomorrow, but soon
my words will mean no more
than wavering spikes of rosemary
grown from an old grave.

1.
A sun rising, all red fire—
caught,
like a deflating balloon,
on the twigs of Winter’s Tree;
a grey heron, a meadowlark,
two mourning doves at her side
watch
in abnormal silence as
it bleeds out.

2.
Some say the dawn birds sing
because they are surprised:
the night, ended?
and I, alive?
The joy! The joy!

When her apocalypse
broke, she forgot
how to be a child,
how to sing.
Each sunrise surprises her:
the night, ended?
and I, alive?
But how? But how?

3.
Old melodies remind her
of faded habits.
Repetition binds her
together;
against her net, fragments
of wing and soul strain, waiting
for the trap to release.

She will not
let them go:
she hunts life.

4.
With a bow in her hand and arrows in
her back,
her naked feet poised among the snowflakes,
she watches with the heron.
Blink once: a deflating red balloon;
blink twice: a star afire with life—

When I have money and an apartment of my own, I’ll buy pictures like these to put on my walls.

dreamscapes. (photo)
The Red Gloves (photo)
Listening (mixed media)
Tall Elephant—Dali Study (watercolor)

Music in my fingers
like the sea, blood tide.
Music swelling crashing
speaking—
     newness.
There we are again.

Fingers dance shadows
on faded guipure.
When the west wind calls,
I am ready.

Hear, sweet, we will grow together,
     grow old together.
Lies weave into your story:
you are lost, but not alone.

And I converse with the gulls; 
they will beckon you home.
Maybe when the tide washes out, I’ll see
your neck again.

Until you, I will be. Just be.
It is well.

The relentless peace of the ocean
     the blood tide, your melody:
here I am. Find me, if.

I said goodbye to you at Gate 12 and thought I would never breathe again.

I counted every day and prayed every night. Sleep wasn’t rest but torturous images of you stepping on a landmine, catching a sniper’s bullet, roasting in a suicide blast.

And then you were standing on the front porch, holding your duffel bag with your one remaining arm. The sadness in your eyes hurt worse than months apart. I held you. And we cried.

When the tears dried, I realized that happily ever after is bittersweet.

Spring comes calling — finally!

I’m feeling… how to describe it… the way I imagine Vincent Van Gogh or Syliva Plath might have felt, or like the girl with the pearl earring. Like my me might fly away if the wind blows hard enough, leaving behind my mere body. Or like my very ordinary body—wonder of wonders!—might be beautiful if someone painted me today.

I’m restless, I’m Forrest Gump’s feather, I’m shy, I’m sweet Edward’s scissors, I’m alone, I’m Yorick’s skull, I’m happy, I’m Elizabeth Bennet’s regrets, I’m peculiar, I’m Madame Karenina’s life, I’m forgotten, I’m the shards of Narsil, I’m just me, which is really nothing new but perhaps I have something to say anyway.

There, I’m rambling. I want a pirate like Roux, and my pen can’t keep up with my mind. Wouldn’t it be lovely to be someone’s muse? Startling, though. I need a cloud to ride, or at least a lake to love. Clocks bother me, sometimes. Fish and my sea, and if I went out late at night, after my roommate’s asleep, no one would have any idea what was in my head until they found my body at the bottom of the water tower. Not romantic, perhaps, but I don’t have the same resources as Evelyn McHale. But the flowers aren’t blooming yet, not really. If I could be a blade of grass for a day, I wouldn’t mind being stepped on because I’d get to see the world from a new perspective. The green on these chairs isn’t green at all, I don’t know why they printed it. Nails and nails, and which one hurts more? Boo! I don’t know if I’ve ever heard a mockingbird. Tooooo much. I think it’s time to run away. Maybe if I run fast enough, I’ll find me. Mm, no. That doesn’t fit. Literary criticism breaks me into pieces. And the Bible has two edges: does it have a surface? Tension. Break! no. In and out, and where did the needle go? Mm, I’m drifting, somebody toss me a compass. But the sea’s that way, and the river’s running away from it. Ooo, I’m inside out. Chuck me out the window please. It’ll do me good.

What kind of consciousness is this, anyway? Hm, guess I’ll claim it if i must. Yes, doctor, I know I’m absurd. Please stop trying to diagnose me.

Out of sight, out of mind.