To M. W.
But that’s the wind for you,
Chilling stares among a wilderness
Of colourful screens, and Sundays’ unassailable dullness:
No sky around when eyes looked like
A prison for dashed hopes, lost pleasures,
No sky around when she was being held hostage
To the sea, yet kept walking through sunsets,
And talking nineteen to the dozen —
How very naive of her —
And who threw those stares, they said it was
Mothers, fathers, maybe her soul in a place
You can feel behind locked doors, under a cold moonlight,
Shivers among shrinking walls, and a cramped house —
Yes, it’s her soul where the shreds of a birth
Live on as a piebald crash since you sold out desire
To a deceiving silence ready to flare up —
Come here now, soul, get some strength
As too many doubts geld her dead volcanoes,
Come here now, and bring along demise,
The usual shady stuff when abused thoughts
Split like lightnings in a storm,
A black embargo grabs your shelter,
And light bursts in among burning pronouns,
Or that broken promise, dawn dashing to you
Along with dead fires, women, all hissing
“You don’t believe us, do you?” —
So, don’t kid yourself, my cold moonlight,
Don’t think the world of your hard grab,
Cassandra’s eyes, a raven’s eyes,
That’s what her fear’s got,
Green eyes while she discards the myth
Of a stare, her search for mothers, lost births,
And maybe her names will get different —
Now.
.
Stink Eye Magazine 