Silhouettes from a More Intricate Light

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I first discovered love
the way I discovered Neruda:
alone in a crowd,
at an unexpected place
and by accident,
at an age when I had
no business getting entangled
in that otherworldly sensuality,
nobody had warned me
there were words and thoughts
and times of day and settings
of stories, and then—
there existed that sixth sense
where flesh merged with soul
and nights held secrets
and there isn’t really
enough blue for
the consumption of
the entire universe
to meet the satisfaction
of a hungry eye that can
pierce languages in search
of the meaning that died
just before the first
empty line,

that there was living,
windows of daylight
and the shuffling indulgences
that bless the dreaming dream
with charm, with quaintness
and then—
there was surviving, barely
drunkenly and defiantly
in the throes of the
magnificent impossible,
the beautifully broken
that make the earth
a sweet, savage heartache
an insatiable incandescence
where all expression
falls short
and we shall be forever
only trying, trying
and how mad
and how divine
we get
each time we try…
.

FallenNo7_byPaulineGola
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Fallen No. 7 by photographer Pauline Gola

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….

Love Me Vintage

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There is always time for beauty,
for kisses and
for getting lost forever
in the circuitous side streets
of sequins and sepia.
I have devoted myself, see,
to these mason jars of sunshine
and stained glass windows
that remind me a little
of the way gentleness
colors the silence
when you smile.
I drink my Valencia chocolate
thick and decadent,
like an untamed offering
of nature to my senses,
and feel as favored as
that moonless April evening
when you once casually
brushed a stray strand of hair
from my face.
I read passion
within the details
of the crochet trimmings
on the edges of things,
get entranced
by the saga of silhouettes
cast by mosaic lamps,
and say to myself, “Life
is definitely Wedgwood blue,
or close to it.”
Here, I love you,
and with a ballerina’s grace
I move among gilded birdcages
and wistful cherubs
in smooth plaster,
sprays of wildflowers
to brighten corners
and the nourishing poetry
of traditional home cooking,
collages of ephemera
on the translucent material
that the past is made of,
and butterflies
with intricate wings encased
between the blond wood
of the coffee table
and the tempered glass
upon which I have lain
these pages
to pen these lines
and tell you
everything I see is fashioned
after some previous dream.
We love
in order to teach
the dark luxurious universe
to make room
for all the beauty we can make.
.

breakfastinameadow_bysimplybloom1
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“Breakfast in a Meadow”
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by Simply Bloom Photography

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The Faithful Curator

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You will not remember these days.

When you are old enough
to talk about things,
it wouldn’t be about
these little aches
these little fears
these little moments of delight
that once had been
all that mattered
when your world was small
and everything was new,
and curious and overwhelming

and I was your keeper
and protector
and I moved to your movement,
answered your every cry,
drank up your laughter and
breathed the peace of your sleep…

You would not remember me,
not this way:
your five senses are raw
and the words haven’t come yet
but someday I would be to you
the things you heard me say
the things I made you do
and your heart will be steered
by you,
and you would respond
by what you understand
when understanding comes,

not
by these moments
when you are helpless and
merely waiting for the world
to fall into place.
Your little smiles and tears,
the little struggles of
your little limbs,
when it’s time to remember,
will all be but one
blur of a dream.

But I have been awake,
even through the nights,
and will remember.
I will remember enough for both of us.
.

motherandchild
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Untitled photo by photographer Vanessaclass

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