One more night in the burning box.
One more day in the sullied streets.
Grey battered erasers–once a perfect
pink–pressed upon for endless years,
dangle against bony shoulders.
Another afternoon.
Silent stones recline in expectant tombs.
Even if they had tongues, they would not
speak. Their surrender is complete.
One more day in the sullied streets.
One more night in the burning box.
K—for Katherine—he scrawls.
Beneath a bluebird,
three fat orange slices soak up tender
afternoon light.
Yet, those waxy, mirthful mouths
do not console
the haggard cherub who bawls softly inside
the nursery.
“Quit playing in trees,” she said.
How could she possibly know
that these arms are my refuge
and that this broken coat is my
home?
Mama is the quiet one,
like the small,
pretty angel that sits up on our
Christmas tree.
Papa is the noisy one,
like the big,
angry wind that rattles my bedroom window
at night.
It was written on his clavicle
in daubs of dying wisteria by
oppressively agile hands.
I was summoned to the theatre,
though I wore only my nightshirt.
His fists are weeping, even now.
I tremble beneath the hidden spikes.
I tremble; he is colder than the night.
They speak of nasturtium and distant
breasts, one arid tongue at a time.
Without the head, the body falls.
What was done here shall have no memory.
Wide brims of light blind a corpulent
matron. She has only ever seen receding
snatches of the cyclical punishment–needy
but resentful–attached to her coattails. She
dreams–often–floating freely through a
sea of checkered lanterns to discover a
new (and better) dwelling.
Contracts are finite.
Attachments, not yet severed.
It is, perhaps, the suffering children clinging
to her hem, who make the brightness so
unbearable.
When he beholds the anguish
of his ally,
hot, briny rivers begin to gush from
quivering eyes.
The caustic thorn which punctures
a cherished one
will crush your own heart into a
thousand fragments.
White bird in the distant bright, if it please
your youthful heart, come and unfold
those mighty wings by green arrow’s edge.
Around us, red leaves murmur of the approaching
frost, yet, I suspect that her apron pockets contain
secrets which we will never hear.
White bird in the distant light, if it please
your faithful heart, come and promenade
gracefully by my weary, rain-washed eyes.
The persimmons are slinking away and
I fear that we shall never meet again.
If it please you, it would please me.
But now the season’s creeping coda
blows prayers upon my frayed chapeau.
Against a heaving breast, cheap claret
waits meekly within darkness for you
to deliver the roaring silent psalm
that will redeem three godless men.
Dazzling under a golden pansy,
deceptively smooth arms
lazily beckon our inquisitive mimic towards sparkling
white porcelain.
But when four fingers meet,
small sanguinary seeds
sink into a waiting puddle of warm,
milky water.
——-
Two-year-old children are a curious bunch!
sundry folly 