I wait
Like my grandmother
On the steamship
Between Romania
And Ellis Island
The in-between
Before arriving.
Boredom —
The not knowing for
What one is waiting.
I am waiting.
Smoking and
Drinking away
My days.
Read poems
Write a few.
Like my grandmother
Writing letters to her
Father,
“ There is nothing
But the flat sea, like the
Flat line that leads back
To you.”
At night we walk
The decks together,
Traveling in-between
Departure and destination.
We say very little. She points
To the night sky, “ Cassiopeia”
We lean on the railing watch
The silver blue wake of the ship.
She’s been dead so long now.
She cups my face in her hands
They are warm and soft,
Like the dream of home.
.
.
.
.
Going down
On you
Speaking in
Syllables
Looking up
At you see you
Smile. It
Makes me
Concentrate.
My tongue
Soft as feathers,
A paintbrush.
I paint like
Rembrandt.
With so many
Dark hues —
Everything else
Is you.
.
.
.
.
Silence
This poem was first written more than two years ago, here is the first rewrite. A prophetic poem.
Oh longing for absolution!
I call to her but she doesn’t
Respond. Oh mocking moon turn
Your face from me, keep hidden
The worshiped wound.
Oh suffering of kisses. I
Call to her but she doesn’t
Respond. Oh evening primrose, still
Your scented lips and do not repeat
my helpless verses.
Oh desperation of clocks. I
Call to her but she doesn’t
Respond. Oh light hearted Lark banish
Yourself from the sky so that she
Will not know of my sorrows.
Oh extinction of Night. I call
To her but she doesn’t respond.
Oh unforgiving bed, be still
That I may sleep — and my heart die
To this ever so sad, sad night.
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