by Louis Lamanna
I cannot look down to this floor,
but her features are shaped on the flags!
In every cloud, in every tree—
filling the air at night,
and caught by glimpses in every object by day,
I am surrounded with her image!
The most ordinary faces of men and women—
my own features—mock me with a resemblance.
The entire world is a dreadful collection of memoranda
that she did exist,
and that I have lost her!
Alas, standing solemn
upon a street beneath a pine tree
drenched in rain water from the tears of God
stands an ethereal red haired woman
with no hands or fingertips
and blushed lips
opening and closing and opening
and singing to me–
from outside my car window.
The rainwater dripping like candlewax
slow and lumpy
onto my windows–churning waters like
words and punctuation and;
oceans and tidal waves-
And yet I’m drowning dry
and can’t but stifle a cry
that barely resemble words-
let alone those I want to hear.
And back and forth the clouds
swirl the Catherine Sky and everywhere I look
I see the red haired woman.
Speak to me? Darling I’m, I’m reaching
but I’ve no place to rest my hands
to grasp you and crawl between your
Sing to me the caustic song of Sirens?
And red runs auburn to brown as your hair
becomes wet but it does not yet wisp-
Behind you I’ve spotted a pine cone
grasping to the edge of its mother
unwilling to let go
as I do to my car, to my steering wheel.
I’ve embraced the gas pedal, darling,
do not let the smog taint your face
I shall be back upon another moist
evening, to reclaim your song
and to lure you to my island tell you of my odyssey
-to feast upon your flesh
and drink your blood.
But now I’ve driven away, and can
barely spot the fire from my rear view mirror.
The red hair has wisped
and the rain has ended.
The pine tree has fallen
and I’ve found Catherine
as I plummet
into the inferno.
Or perhaps to a place
in the Yorkshire Moors
under the benign sky
where not even the rain can imagine unquiet slumber
for my darling and I.
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