All
day the rain, listening to it and his heart and the ancestors as they arrive,
make tea, whisper over papers, knock down walls. A merry chaos when Lawrence
opens his grey eyes, seeing only what was there last night: the dark oak floor,
sea of books and clothes, table of bottles, glasses, candles. He rises in the
rainlight and hunts for his clothes, the socks the gentry hid. Fancy a little
breakfast? he asks, stumbling to my dreary wall of a kitchen: bread, port wine
jam. The attic turns twice the size and fills with shadows. I clear the table,
and in the centre, place a bowl of blood, gold, rose apples. My mouth is too
small, my jaw cracks. The spell may break. I tear the toast. Lawrence, look at
the rain; divine! I push the plate away, away, for I am half light, between
worlds. Silver threads across the ceilings of new rooms, ancestors applaud for
the gentry dancing on tightropes to Debussy.
Ariel Dawn [photo credit: Sara
Hembree] lives in Victoria, British Columbia with her son and daughter. She
spends her time writing, reading, studying Tarot, and working on her first
collection of prose poems. Recent work appears in Guest, Train, and Litro.
the
Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
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