Nostalgia

[Rebele]

Nostalgia

Nostalgia is an ephemeral swallow
flying out from Virgin Mary’s womb.
A death mask of Ancient Egypt
unearthed by sleepless hands.
A minefield where the lonely play.
A walk through the ruins
with one eye made of stone.
A sickly Proust inhaling a Madeleine
and summoning a violin at midnight.
Nostalgia is a vein where we inject
strange and wonderful poisons.

[Rebele]

Our love

Our love was rough and uneven,
like the origami owl you gave me.
You and owl were one, wings haphazardly
folded together, as our limbs would sometimes
fold together, searching for warmth.
I ripped my slip and bruised my legs
in that old hotel with the plain name.
I cut my hair and laughed
more than I had in a long time.
That laughter sometimes reaches me,
like an old newspaper blown by the wind.
Sometimes I read it, and pretend
I don’t know the ending.

[Rebele]

Memories

How a train ride through Italy
can remind you of your suffering at the hands of nuns.
A double espresso and you’re remembering
the day you first asked a blasphemous question
about Jesus, If he could work miracles,
then why couldn’t he save himself?
And they told you, That’s just the way things are.
Through fields of mustard seed you remember parables
that tempted you with their simplicity,
how you considered sainthood, with all its trials,
perhaps a worthy way to die,
then recognized the folly in this and dived into sin like a burning
woman dives into cold clear water.
A bite of a croissant and you’re considering
how, like sin, it has several delicious layers,
first the honeyed outer crust, how you dressed yourself
in rosaries and fishnets, then the buttery middle,
how you undulated beneath your lover’s hard body,
and finally the softest core of air; you left him
without notice on a winter day (why do you always leave in winter?)
Memories - rubies you steal from catacombs.

[Rebele]

It's All a Blur Now

It’s all a blur now
the Mexican restaurants glowing
like soft sentinels in the black soup night
me riding in the passenger side
listening to Chuck Berry and Buddy Guy,
Richard pestering you for more time,
drinking Jack Daniels until 4 a.m.,
tender kisses, tender as the undersides of petals,
the way you told me you deserve this, you deserve love
the river, a brown goddess
sweeping away cedar branches and washing the moss
off steady stones.
Mt. Shasta receding in the distance as I drove home.
You always slept late so you missed the sunrise;
by sunset too drunk to see.
Now the dance of death, necessary as it is,
to keep myself from being haunted
by another hopeless, beautiful boy.

[Rebele]

In Japan

In Japan, depression makes beautiful its women:
they are silky, with divine skin.
It is they who glide serpentine and silent
through the pollution nights,
who crack mirrors in every bathroom.
And splintered sunlight
rays through their heavy wooden blinds,
where there will be a seat with the radio on.
But there will be no lover who sits beside the small, patterned bed,
no animal in their pen.

In bedrooms, the last autumns of leaf-nailed hands land
on the skin –
its whorls and imperfect ridges.
Touch occurs between dreams;
between lands and space;
in America and Japan –
fuzzed edges of the lovers’ guarantee
to perfect feelings.
.....................................

In Japan I felt my soul continue
with the ghost of a lost porn actor –
muted and oversold.

[Liridona]

Beautiful Rebele, congratulations!

[Rebele]

Thank you, Liridona! Very pleased you enjoyed.

Regards,

[Rebele]

Cocoon

The fifteen-year old girl in me,
curled in hibernation
when my womb split
to bear his child.

I will keep her safe.

Her breathing
is a small bell,
moss grown on my belly.
Hands become loaves
and my breasts
trickle sweet water.

I tell her I have heard
every word, good and vulgar,
from him—
from now on
there will only be silence,
so she can sleep.

I break for her,
over and over again;
she remains
a ghost of summer.

From the gray there is forgiveness
and life
streaming from within.