Echoes of Nightingale: April 2012

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

Give her a chance

and she’ll break it

into shards of glass

she’ll sheepishly gather

and offer back to you

with exhausted pleas
to reconstruct to spec

before her next performance

Lying next to you

Your hip at my hip

Our eyes look up

Colors burst untamed

Nature’s pyrotechnics

Morning’s nasturtiums

Our mouths fall open

My fingers find your fingers

We laugh and swallow flame

“No one’s dying here," she tells me

and I am caught up short

counting little daily deaths --

those we shove in drawers,

kick under beds,

throw over balconies

at passersby.

Love is bloodied,

in critical condition

soon to be pronounced.

Laughter bubbles rise

from light's collapse.

Last folding chair

at your birthday party.

“No one’s dying here.”