She said it was “a raven in her mind…”;
a thought that kept knocking against her skull
(her thick black hair flew off into the sun
that day we surfed the moon along Malibu).
Even now I see her laughter instead of hear it,
her dimpled smile, her red lips –
a momentary look that says: “I know…”,
as if the mind were translucent glass.
Sometimes when I drift between,
there is this sweet sublime, a terror
that discomforts me,
a taste of bitter honey and shampoo,
a subtle touch of burnt oil upon my exposed foot.
That night we danced till dawn
we found ourselves in trees so old they spoke;
the one she said was moving like an old goat,
the other hairy with a beard of cotton froth.
The children knew her by her eyes,
almond squirrels that dash away
and pounce again like tiger’s claws;
when playfully we fell into the grass, she teased
the silliness from my mind – like the flinging geese,
and kept them flying on past us into that stark blue,
where even now I remember her: the raven thoughts.
– Steven Craig Hickman ©2014 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.