From the train window
I can see miles of Pine trees
that seem to go on forever.
There’s a golden wolf howling
at the moon
chanting to the midnight Gods.
By morning Pine trees give way to
Palms and screeching Cicadas.
Tonight the moon reveals the belly of
the world from which we all come.
All that I have left is a photograph.
Tell me night-time dreamer why you
hold so many secrets in your heart.
When I look into your eyes
all I see is star dust.
There are times when I can see myself
through your eyes.
My pale face so in love
aching for the caress of a flaxen
haired boy racing through rolling fields.
Suddenly serious your adventurous eyes
sent yearning shivers through me.
I longed for your touch anytime and
kissed you opened mouth without
I adored your mock anger when you
chased me and the awkward way
you looked down at your hands.
Soon Autumn threw its shadow on
sprouting wheat, smooth and wet.
Now, I listen to the soft whisper
of your breathing through a half
closed door and know there are
different kinds of love
wild, ruthless, and unafraid.
Late afternoons I sit at the counter of a small diner sipping vanilla coke watching the day turn into night or dollar green but it seems as Gershwin said, not for me. It is dog days and I am hot and tired and mostly luckless, angry too, my new love fading so soon. I dream myself into a hot soak in a fancy clawed foot bath tub sinking my dusty body into lilac scented bubbles. I imagine lying back with closed eyes as the hot water flicks at peony nipples. I am what one might call self-employed these days.
Settling for a motel shower stall I scrub my body that smells of dusty magnolias with rose scented oil until it glimmers like alabaster. Slipping into a black sheath, silver seamed stockings and stiletto heels saved for the occasion, I make my way onto Bourbon Street. At the corner the sounds of a sax carries through the open door of a dimly lit bar, it drifts up the alley over the roof of a brothel falling into gentle ruin. From my booth there I stare through a prism of glass at the Dog Star and blow a kiss to the man in the moon already yawning at the deep purple sky.
My dream dies then returns
where you are a denizen who
speaks in languages I’ve yet
our dream had weight yet
Left no impression in the snow.
That December we
spoke in stutters still the heat
of our tongues turned words
You appear on the back of my eyes
etched into walls where light
and shadow mingle.
Why did you have to be so beautiful?
Now December holds me fast
forever retrieving the dream.
The sun has lost its domain
snow birds shroud the light
A handful of starlings quiver on
bare branches so fragile in fixed feathers
they could fit in the palm of a hand.
Suspended in frozen breath they sing
for the reach of an outstretched hand
clinging to a red-tailed kite floating
above snowy fields of wildflowers in full bloom.
I am a lone bird wheeling jagged edges
of ancient cliffs above the shallows
of a rough Dover sea.
My feathers gleam in the beam of
the lighthouse where gentle swells
pulse against rocky shores
where in dreams you held me tenderly like
I have abandoned the lighthouse
that seems to lean closer to the sea
waiting in vain at the tide swept shore.
The beam has ceased its search
still each time I pass I tip my wing.
Promo Video by Resa McConaghy, designer … It’s an exciting life and Resa’s living it!
costume designer for Last Call, Resa McConaghy.