the bride in the mirror of his Eye.
discards the sun, the smaller planets;
why would she need them now or
the woolly path from childhood, cherry bright
her mother hemmed in close firm stitches overnight
that wouldn’t ravel out
so she couldn’t catch cold coming home from the Anywhere
and shod
in her merry silk slippers, singing…
and radiant with her own radiance, still-
she seeks Forever, stepping out of the Chancery
telling herself, this must be the good I dreamed of:
while something murmurs
who let the Thunder in
through the ash trees
and every bough is quivering
no. it isn’t.
then everyone smiles so much
admiring the gown…and says she’s the
prima lily ringed by bridesmaids, after all
in pale Giselle her afterlife hues
the bride in the mirror of his eye grew
vastly small; then
vastness flew
crowned with something glittery so they knew
it wasn’t her, how could it be
boarding a train that wouldn’t come back
because there is no station
and she’ll awake to a matinee scattering now
of a dream within a dream of all that she believed
in, forfeited
she must she must she must the Chorus chimes
dissolve into a perpetual Roaring as if, on cue;
they’ll say though not so openly as before
it’s like the wave purling from the shore my dear my dear
when it hits the rocks;
you’ll get the hang of it,
we’ll help you till you do…
except except the wave turns back she thinks
(while she still can) and is free, that way
occasionally in the tide of things from day to day
to talk to God or the winds in spring
without anyone knowing anything
or having to.
but days have gone or just grown dim
while she’s so quiet, turned within and can’t be found
in the fractioning mirror of his eye of childlike puzzlement.
not quite, distress
that there’s a gaping where the green wind blew
sometime in April
and the kaleidoscope doesn’t work
mary angela douglas 8 january 2013
No comments:
Post a Comment