floating and leaving no trace
let me draw you
my little french girl
i’ll cover you
with a sheet of tracing paper
–not acetate
that’s too true–
that flimsy filmy stuff
we got in math class
and art class
and geography when we traced
the states
so we can trace
the state of things
translucent as they say
letting light pass through
but not transparent
because too much light
is same thing as seeing nothing
candles flicker for obvious reasons
birthdays, farewells, power outs,
supplication to saints
checking that canary you
carried down into the coal mine
homemade bikini waxing
sealing someone’s fate with a signet
pressed into a blood red blob
liberace
but mostly the presence of ghosts
for a single moment
perhaps that pause
between heartbeats
the sun shone through
the wings of a butterfly
and i understood
the reason for cathedrals
the lights begin like christmas
reds blues greens
but soon enough
become misty ghosts
floating in great oceans of black
that swallow the ground
lone fires dot the silent sea
and the horizon burns
while the voices
roar
themselves waves
rolling in tar
drowning flames
sweet little light
how you flicker
like a fairy caught
in a darkened kitchen
you are a winged heart
and you sing as you soar
if only you weren’t so small
or this room so dark
or you voice so hard to hear
will o’ the wisps
glowing in rain
accelerate toward me
like headlights
or those tiny ufos
in close encounters
i will
become less
suddenly insubstantial
riding the back of
a firefly
chasing raindrops
i wish hummingbirds
glowed
in the dark
shuddering sun
or is it
the world moving
breaking
beneath our feet
i reach for your hand
count the rings
of your fingerprints
brushing against my own
there is no darkness
only birth
there is no light
only the song
of your breathing
we reach the light at the same time
the woman and i
i glance at her
she’s young, fresh-faced
her hair pulled back
into a ponytail
–why doesn’t she look this way
even as i turn back to the light
still freshly red
as we approached
either one of us could have run it
made it through that stale yellow
but neither one of us did
i look at her again
i have time after all
the other traffic is just now
crossing
as a sculptor
i have to look at her face
like when i started writing fiction
and dissecting screenplays
how i ruined movies for everyone
including myself
–that’s the killer
–he’s going to die in the next act
–here comes the first big reversal
instead of just enjoying it
now i look for bones
collagen and muscle
planes, angles and shadows
–why doesn’t she look this way
and i turn back again
as traffic is slowing down
like popcorn in the microwave
just before it starts smoking
and stinking up the kitchen
just as well
she doesn’t look at me
a twitchy old bald man
who’s face is drawn up by
tortured nerves into a grimace
that could be mistaken for a leer
or is it a leer
my dad was a real womanizer
couldn’t pay attention to his kids or wives
because he was always wondering
where he was going to stick it next
thank god i mostly look like a gargoyle
half stone, half flesh and blood
so i never had to deal with that
–and why the fuck doesn’t she look this way
the light turns green
it’s just as well our eyes didn’t meet
don’t want any misunderstandings
one meeting of the eyes might be an accident
but what if we end up at this light again
tomorrow
is that a relationship
who needs an extra one of those
it’s obvious she’s looking at her phone
and i hate that shit
the top of the moon
reflects nearly as much light
as the moon’s bottom
——
for
Ronovan Writes
Weekly Haiku Poetry Prompt
Challenge 100: Top & Light
i tripped and fell and
split in half
surprised to find that the split
to be smooth and polished
as if it had been there
all along or
as if cut by a stone cutter
wet saw heavy grit polishing wheels
but the inside, the caverns
left in their natural state
filled with glittering jagged
spikes, false stars winking
each one sharp enough
to kill a man
each star promising light
but offering only razors
——
Words and Feathers 