|
|
Outside my window the widow's walk curls an iron
semicircle under the eaves. Black Georgian optimist,
it commands the pillared entranceway, yearns
seaward past tossing lawns fossiled over
Mesozoic fish and shells. Prairie wind flicks
hail like pearls to pyramid the balcony floor--
Captain Kidd's treasure chest, cold as Davy Jones.
It's a long way to Charleston.
Isn't it daffodil time in Carolina?
Shouldn't the beaches be churned with pink
shells, the dunes stroked by our shadows
intertwined? Remember the ineluctable
rugosa roses swelling their meaty
buds in the suntrapped dooryard
of the public library? And what
of white voile curtains blowing leeward--
suddenly a cocoon of lace to confuse
our long slow kiss?
Oh well, if I can't tip my tongue
in daffodils, dewy, salt-sprayed,
erect, at least I have this thunder spitting
big ice balls to dent those unbearable
Saabs and Cadillacs next door, their flaccid
pouts sangfroiding all over the medical
center parking lot. Bounce on, pop,
pop, pop. Stumble me onto the balustrade
gaping up, gull-style, for enough to gargle,
enough to bruise my lips. Hit me
cold with everything you've got.
Reprinted with permission
from Kalliope, Fall 1997
Copyright © 1997
by Dru Wall
|
The Earth turns with a sound
we long to hear
under the lights,
the elongated hurt, stubborn clay,
turns within the force that is your will,
beyond any choosing
to each smallest rounding of the elbow,
slightest declination of the fingers
builds gesture to gesture
circling more and greater space
into fire.
Turn and turning repeat
and spiraling repeat
making obedient
what can't obey for long,
leap and leaping suspend
air and time
as the pattern breaks
free of earth's turning
with sound we believe to be
chalked slippers on wood.
Burn thin the veil.
Your dance that is our dance
makes us possible again.
Reprinted with permission
from Indefinite Space, Spring 1997
Copyright © 1997
by Dru Wall
|
|
Bibliography
