I know I am writing you from a country you imagine
you left a long time ago the blurry angel spoke
from decrepit dreaming movie reels then the trees were flickering
and it was Spring. the children sailed small boats
in middy blouses
and they wore gauzy wings for awhile before
they came down with scarlet fever, other things.
and went to never grow up land
with tremulous smiles.
it wasn't only in certain novellas, useful for pressing flowers
from the first bouquets they were remembered
children with folded hands their eyes shining
with worlds too good for us now you say to yourself
therefore, the Great Divide
as you are reading the eternities in their eyes
your hands shaking, contemplating
the short lifelines presumably hidden
in their clasped photogenic palms
and the emblems of doves and hearts entwined somehow
made you think then of old funerals in a chill sunshine
the survivors fanning themselves with palmetto
maybe an ice cream afterwards something raspberry that fizzed.
this was how we lived when we dreamed of old houses antique fairs
vintage books everywhere the creak on the stairs of the former
owners who cannot sleep but sweep into the libraries
turning injured pages.
by now you are dozing too in a place blurry on earth
where the Graces have brought heirloom roses, wreaths of them, to
commemorate. Something...what was it, and to soothe...
nothing is remembered now.
the angel in the old film fades into implied goldenness.
if you only knew the multitudes of angels
on the shore gazing after you that afternoon
when you spurned the country
you think I am too old
to be living in now.
I should somehow,
spreading the marmalade thick on my toast,
know better.
childlike, in emeralds
filling the candy jars-
mary angela douglas 30 july 2018
you left a long time ago the blurry angel spoke
from decrepit dreaming movie reels then the trees were flickering
and it was Spring. the children sailed small boats
in middy blouses
and they wore gauzy wings for awhile before
they came down with scarlet fever, other things.
and went to never grow up land
with tremulous smiles.
it wasn't only in certain novellas, useful for pressing flowers
from the first bouquets they were remembered
children with folded hands their eyes shining
with worlds too good for us now you say to yourself
therefore, the Great Divide
as you are reading the eternities in their eyes
your hands shaking, contemplating
the short lifelines presumably hidden
in their clasped photogenic palms
and the emblems of doves and hearts entwined somehow
made you think then of old funerals in a chill sunshine
the survivors fanning themselves with palmetto
maybe an ice cream afterwards something raspberry that fizzed.
this was how we lived when we dreamed of old houses antique fairs
vintage books everywhere the creak on the stairs of the former
owners who cannot sleep but sweep into the libraries
turning injured pages.
by now you are dozing too in a place blurry on earth
where the Graces have brought heirloom roses, wreaths of them, to
commemorate. Something...what was it, and to soothe...
nothing is remembered now.
the angel in the old film fades into implied goldenness.
if you only knew the multitudes of angels
on the shore gazing after you that afternoon
when you spurned the country
you think I am too old
to be living in now.
I should somehow,
spreading the marmalade thick on my toast,
know better.
childlike, in emeralds
filling the candy jars-
mary angela douglas 30 july 2018
