Author: redrivergirl

(About) the Photograph

The photograph will grow on you. Slowly at
first, then blossom in the dead of Winter like a
Jade. One day, you’ll realize the photograph
has been studying you. Watching you come
and go. Knitting as you wash dishes.
Rearranging blankets on the couch. Idling.
Yesterday, it followed you outside. To the
edge of the fire.

The photograph is never distracted by
heroines, however old-fashioned, ill-fated or
shrewd. It is content to watch you read.

It would be nice if the photo would stop.
Maybe a restraining order. But to what end?
The photograph swallowed you long ago, along
with a thousand words.

(About) the Reader

The reader knows everything about the
heroine. When not reading or within earshot
of other readers, the reader refers to
the heroine’s favorite songs, foods and
movies as if they were the reader’s own. As if
the heroine stepped out of line to dodge a
bullet and the reader closed the gap.

The reader comes from a long line of listeners
who took up reading when words became
flesh. For this reason, there are days the
reader goes without reading. Or sleep.

Sometimes, the reader imagines the heroine
staring back across the fire.

(About) the Heroine

Every book needs a heroine. The chapters of
history would yellow and crack without them.
Western border towns would shiver in their
river bottoms and not know why. Eastern
skies would empty their pockets of blue.

Librarians believe in heroines. They know why
heroines catching your stare, stare right back
and invite you in. Dreams are more memorable
with heroines. As are laundry rooms, Bimini tops
and just around the corner.

Heroines have vices. Seductive charms.
Whiskey. Many of them wear shirts with
snaps and familiar patterns. They are not
afraid to cry uncontrollably in the middle of
dinner. With or without wasabi.

Miss
i.

lately,
we’ve called ourselves names
we knew
in high school.

before statements
and vehicles thought
to measure worth.

I wonder,
have we fallen into
or out of

truth?

Still
i.

She was

not
interested in new and
improved, organic
double-roll, special edition limited-time
offers of
now 30% more
minus rebate in
hand-written envelopes personally addressed to herself or
mailboxholder.

She did not even want
a kiss.

Return
i.

Darkest dawn of
even
darker night.
Spanning wings
of angels caught
mid-flight.


Sprinkle dust
of bones from those
who leap–


Prayer blankets
now, for
secrets
held too deep.


Spellbound by trees
we walk
on
riverbed below


No separation left, no
effort keeping
earthy mold
from promised
light.


Only faces.
Warmed by
memory
of you,


the
kindling


of life.

Somewhere
ii.

 

I Saw Summer
sipping wine.

I can’t say where.

Watched her loosen up
her tie.

Shake out her hair.

I asked about the brightest thing
she knew—

Eeeeazzzzzy!

She laughed.

And of course…

I wanted more.

Somewhere
i.

Fall, sacred rain.
on cigarettes
and rainbow-color cooler
cups.

Pool, sacred blood.
in bio-hazard altar perched
on auntie’s
counter.

Blow, sacred wind.
carry ashes
of another limb
to brother sky.

Roll, sacred river.
wash our faces when
we cannot
cry.