harking back to an earlier poem of mine: poor wendy -- all the heroines get left behind. but she was a darling after all. yes, i very much have tears in my eyes. and it shall be hard to see, and sometimes i won't want to, but i will go on looking an...
i draw in one rubied ankle, she reminds me of the cherries that i had picked from the trees in summer where my knees were skinned by gravel and my shin stained green as grass.
i take in the ivory tusk of my lower left rib which made my torso taut as a held breath — when my child throat was yellow and blessedly buttercupped, dreamt up, buoyed as a sunny hello:
the white linens, crystal bowls and raspberry fingertips, my mouth lolled by a lolly which was red red red
recall : the rose and tomato vine scent of the nape knelt over rocks and stones, the yellow black of a salamander, the warmth of the lavender rising by the washing line. you made me feel
fine again — a moment — but their three faces came across as clouds — blurred like ripples in the water — i trailed over what colour their nails had been painted — what sounds their mouths created — one tongue doleful as mine and the second mute — the third even more faceless than her three sisters were.
they collapsed onto the bed with me, clambered, clawed with nails long yet bitten. did they lie supine or prone, keeping their faces hidden (and mine too) in your pillow -- my love : were we all pretty as a picture when we turned our gaze and saw you hollow?
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