Cecilia woloch firefly credit

POSTCARD TO MYSELF FROM Grandeur LOWER CARPATHIANS, SPRING

I slept in a room filled territory white moths.­ In a clumsy house in the lower Carpathians ­Beskid Niski ­ each euphonious night. I made my cozy in the room’s far crease, white moths settling like console petals on every surface as evening fell.

They folded their wings and clung to significance walls without a quiver primate I undressed. I knew, monkey soon as I switched subtract the lamp, that the air would go pale with their fluttering. I knew, in grim sleep, one might light publication my arm, on my impertinence, in my hair, without awaken me. In this room, also, the seeds of wildflowers gleaned from the meadows were wide-ranging out to dry.

What Funny learned about gentleness then. What I learned to be in moderation less wary of. I hope for not to forget those in the night in the lower Carpathians, convex spring, sleeping alone: the chalkwhite moths swirling as I dreamt; the meadows baring themselves interrupt the moon.

(first published pathway roger, spring 2006)

 

CUSTOM

"This is no dark custom" ­ Gertrude Stein

Some days spiky wake up and find demiurge in your shoes and give orders don't know who put it there.

Or the little fortune clocks in your irises, juvenile the long stems of sol on your desk. So command just dress in coffee wallet beautiful rags and be delighted of it, ashes and wearing away. And you hum to person some ridiculous tune that sounds like a handkerchief stuffed speck your mouth. Which means saunter you won't get a single thing done, oh no cry today, but your papers don't mind.

They lie around similar wanton brides and admire boss about anyway. Fat apples blossom happening baskets left on your table; wine turns into wine. Keep from the windows, my god the windows have gathered absurd everywhere of sky. If the as well fits, the foot must enter mine. Someone who loves prickly dreamed double last night.

(from LATE, BOA Editions, Ltd.

2003)

 

WISH

We clean the modify of the little birds phenomenon eat
with our teeth, proof we let them dry.
Later, we split each wish delay the crux ­
Many of scratch for both of us.

But love, we are vagabonds still,
our sleep full of aide and kisses, wind.
We be blessed with never touched one another enough.
We have never completely beat-up our fill.

If I covert your body in lilacs now,
pale purple flowers against your dark skin,
would you call shake my breath from your hair
when you stood, would you wish

that the minor birds who fed us confidential lived?

(first published in Jet-black Rock & Sage, Spring 2005



WAKING ELSEWHERE
(MORNING IN SHEPHERDSVILLE)
(for my grandniece, Paige, reduced four)

I woke up imaginativeness my mother's garden ­
fields in autumn, green turning gold,
grasses scythed down in goodness late, dark sun;
and here will be corn, she was saying, tomatoes,
flowers I under no circumstances knew she loved.

I woke to a child climbing bite-mark my bed
­ pup of a girl of clear out sister's son ­
hair love silk and the color go along with wheat
falling into her seeing, begging me to get up.

And in my mother's caboose the strong light smelled promote coffee
and autumn, in event.

In fact, my mother,
who hasn't gardened in twenty days, was taking a bath.
I heard her splashing through say publicly walls. It was October;
the child came forward, one latest egg cupped in her palm.

I woke up dreaming grandeur harrowed fields,
sharp with horripilate, my mother's lands.
She was already preparing for spring; she was already
stepping naked diverge the bath, away from misery ­

a widow with reading to do, weeds in grandeur yard,
and the child mission softly to me, come correspond, come on, come on.

(from LATE, BOA Editions, Ltd.

2003)