In a word, no

In the pure high joy of the moment,
I found the twiggy dance of opposites
blowing through the tall cypress trees
and gliding across the mirrored ooze.

I know I have no name
and quiver through the tepid day;
roll on the carpet,
bark at fleas,
trace a line of hope
between my knees.
Tweedy sleeves envelop me
and I regard the art nouveau of my toenails.
I roll in the darkness of memory.
I have no eyes -
they have been dusted and sealed shut;
looking inward at fractal light
and pulling the last laughing rabbit
out of my disheveled hat.

Now I must go away
to the land of this and that
and ride the high sway of the trapeze
(the shelves are empty);
stakes and stocks of wondering
give way to plastic crystal claims.
Who needs an answer to the rain?
The muddy soon runs clear.
Raphaelist tendencies frame the day -
square and true and full of feet.
What else am I seeking?

Flying backward
to the days of my twiggy youth,
raw and uncertain,
digger of leaves,
grubbing for thoughts
in the moss beneath
the shining trees,
I ran to a field so far away
there was no place to stand
and I fell down shivering;
and the night died in me,
and I ran to the reedy banks,
and watched the shrinking shore.
I was the boat cast onto the tossing sea
and could not run aground,
until rapture found me finally.


© 2000 Melissa Songer