I am here and it is the day after.
I lift a pile of unread mail off of a chair and open the blinds,
And watch the sun boil the dust in the air. I set and I take it in.
The room smells of old corsets and perfumed talcum powder.
An antique Lady Schick Consolette hair dryer
Hides partly obscured under the heavy frame of the carved mahogany bed
Along with stacks of magazines and catalogs and…………
God knows what else lurks there.
And I realize that I am the only one now lurking,
Looking into a room that had been forbidden to me
The soul domain of the lady of the house.
But she in not here to make things tidy for this impromptu visit.
She would be so shamed by my eyes taking this all in,
Her secrets, her pills, her special candies, her oils, her perfumes -
All of the alchemical accruements of femininity in jars and tiny boxes.
And the symbols of her wizardry, her diamond encrusted Eastern Star ring,
Pendants, broaches, earrings, necklaces, bobbles, bracelets, clasps, loose pearls-
From a strand I broke long ago during happier days.
The sun dust boils from this cauldron now,
This stuffy, over stuffed chamber of perfume and chocolate,
Of daybeds and special treatments, laxatives, gels, powered and pills.
I dream…..a can of gas and a match would be a fitting end
And then I see it on the dresser, an old photo of a family, a pretend family
And a face is cut out of it, his face…….and so I feel, for a moment
Her pain and see the world has she may have seen it. So be it. It is done.
Lightning strikes a jagged path
through the sky and it leaves
no scar behind.
Seas parts a fleet of ships
Then seals itself as if they were
But the earth keeps a history of old wounds
Cut by rivers,
scared by ice.
Passions stored at its core erupt
and tensions at the edge
crack and shake.
The mountain holds the sky,
the harbor holds the sea,
what holds all is me.
It is an old dream
I am passing slowly down a sidewalk looking across
A long green lawn.
There is a gathering crowd, some sounds of alarm.
An old man lies on the ground
His face in shadow from of those that stand around.
But he does not move.
He has come to this quiet place and decided to move no more.
But he is moved.
They come and not in any hurry. No urgency.
He is lifted to the gurney
As limp as a rag doll. They cover him and strap him secure
And walk back
Toward the house that stands dark and tall
At the end of this dream
At the end of that long green lawn.