Was there ever, in your family,
a case of madness? An aunt perhaps,
who wore the insides of her dresses out,
and spoke as if her thoughts were objects?
This was a woman who could travel farther
on a discarded kitchen chair than anyone you know
would care to think about…
Irrelevant in splendor she arrives
to take her place at the family table.
And true to form, when all the rest sit down
she stands to make a toast, tilting her glass
sword-like at shadows, the red wine
like a wheel of light reeling off center.
Then drinks the thing half empty.
And only if you looked her way,
and only then by chance, would you see
her face was luminous, as it rose
above the faces of the others.
And wasn’t it just like the moon on water,
the way you took her kiss straight through you
as if you had no skin? Not death itself, perhaps,
but that same thrill of accidents.
No comments:
Post a Comment