Her face so clear and bright. The high
cheek-bones, the fading brow –
slight the overlay, brown and blackening
to midnight; topaz, the eyes, shaped
to far stars crossed among cypress nights;
the tender embraces of the auroras kiss –
as duplicitous as the touch of her lips upon mine.
……This is the violence of love, the loss
that belies the fatal eclipse of days,
leavenings of an order temporal to desire.
A life behind barbed time, faceless and nameless;
body slumped to nil, the hungered expression,
a temperate intelligence hidden and
veiled to a more than feminine resilience;
a caustic remembrance, an admonishment
that almost kills, but knows with a knowing
that silences such thoughts, disturbs our
observances, and casts doubt
on all we presume or can; a truth so real
it can only find you condemned by pride;
self-satisfied premonitions of a good life
gone south among so many lost winters.
……She will not allow you to frame her,
impose your calibrated geometries
across the years of her dark reign,
bring her to some resolution of love
beyond desire. And, if you touch her now
in this thought what terrible price will you
of necessity, pay? Her irrevocable majesty
strips you clean, your intrepid mind
disburdened by nothing less than everything,
dismayed by a sudden transparency, naked
to the sun, accosted by one’s immodest claims
of bravery; a dishonor too quick to refute,
a tryst calculated and guaranteed, absolved
of the traces that would counter her sovereign legacy.
– Steven Craig Hickman ©2015 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.