METRO LACE

I.

April 9

We've lived this way too long.

There's no going back

as camels might cross a desert

to get to the other side.

I'm not keeping the door open

unless you'd like to reconfigure

the guilty pleasures you loaned me

as we came from afar, singing.

There are people we could name

who would like this better than we do

and others who would scale sheer cliffs

to avoid it.  Never return to sender,

that's too easy.  And no dismal rain

with its hoarse voice of wavering grief

could sum up the reasons you won't answer,

won't be there, as I weady my twaps,

my blunderbuss and Easter ham,

glad you remembered to feed the cat

some little token of your esteem

gleaned from cupboards aglow

with fresh polish, honeyed

as old oak left to soak up the sun.

You were always reminding me

you don't know my name—

trying to fit in anywhere

to shorten my stay here

to relieve me of the odd commands

the boss left behind in her rage.

She was like a big sister to me

till I aged, then she gathered

flowers where she found them, tried

to repeat the spell she'd only heard

but once.  Dejected, she said,

at the sound of her own voice

and what else was there to hear

in the wind that knew perfectly well

it was leaving and never coming back?

It's not yet clear who took the money

and why they felt they had to,

as our Lord, who cares less for pests

than plagues, has never refused

to hold up the hem of his apron

that all might climb aboard.

We sometimes stop in the shadow

of that reticulated façade

to light a smoke or tap a flask

and as we turn to gaze at last

at the fine clouds barely masking

the blue approach to the summit

we smile to think of lives lost

pursuing some trivial end.

Our children's children may forget

with impunity that we ever walked

in scuffed shoes these streets

that bear repeating until our clothes

reappear on some far horizon

where daylight sheds its sullen livery

and disports itself like a harlot,

so to speak.  Have you ever

tried to spread your mouth to hold

your hand, or ever caught a turtle

and kept it, watching each contraction

as though it were your soul

striving to find comfort in liquid?

All the people we used to know

have embarked on ships

that don't include us, and so

we grasp the final report

as incontrovertible,

a mere season before we'd go anyway,

but oh how wearisome to plot

little tasks like a teacher

accustomed to late assignments,

gradually learning to accept

large margins of error.  Modus

ponens and other useful formulas

lead us back here eventually

if only to cross out another path

not taken or taken too soon,

when there was still time to revise

our simple pilgrimage and gain,

at last, that foolproof annuity

most desired.  Unlikely.

In this town things move too fast

and most have forgotten it was ever

any different.  They believe

that barber poles and lunch buffets

shopping malls and sales tax

suffer from a lex aeternitas

and can only be cleared away

by foreign invasion or hostile takeover,

otherwise life is fixed, simply

a painted moon over a painted sea,

something for daws to peck at

and for little boys to smudge

and girls to sigh at the sight of

because it's as old as grandparents

and twice as salty.  Inside,

his heart does cartwheels

at the sight of her breasts,

and she does too, literally.

I'm not making this up.

They told me to say it

and if that's not reason enough to ignore me

find others.  Across the sea

the castle will be there till you come,

I hope, and all will be in readiness

for the long, dark night of no stars

and only the nightjars for company.

Ask for Adam, tell him you can make him

an offer, then step back and mark

how his contortions become

quite rhythmic, able to be imitated

by advanced students of the dance.

History shows all innovators

become rainwater in the end, swelling

the gutters, gone when the sun returns.

I don't know if that’s right, but

sometimes, in the dark, my hands

contact each other, and for a moment

I can believe we all thrive on the illusion

of marionettes enacting passion

in Victorian costumes, accompanied

by the cloying tones of a toy piano,

offered to hearts eager to appear

frivolous and appealing.  Now hush.

© Donald Brown, 2010/2013