November – Stella Wulf

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‘with a thousand eyes, the river looked at him’
― Hermann Hesse, Siddhartha

run away with me
live in my moment
slide with me under
the dappled fringes
we’ll stir the ghosts
of trees ~ tremble
the idle minnows
to a jittery shoal
unsettle the lees
with our confluence
We’ll dally in the glance
of the ruffled sun
~ ~ ~
lie in the fathom
of my eyes
we’ll rock the moon
shiver the stars
lap up the night skies
I’ll orchestrate
a concert of stones
a moving symphony
to their churning histories
we’ll flow through
the crystalline veins
of their scoured hearts
to the beginning
and end of time.

 

 

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The Neverness of Nearly

I have never knowingly nearly died
though I have survived a thousand deaths.

Nor have I nearly missed the boat,
the mark, the point, or a husband.

I didn’t nearly become an astronaut,
surgeon, ballerina – I became a wife.

I have been unerringly accurate
in my straight forward life.

But there at the crossroads of promises,
in sickness and in health – I nearly lost myself.

 

 

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The Couturier

She turns herself inside out
opens the cage of her ribs
to release a quiver of hawk moths
into the charcoal of a burnout dusk.

A kinglet throng of firecrests flutters
from the scorched chambers of her heart.
She unfolds the soft tissue of her lungs
shakes the sighs from their crimson folds

unrolls a chenille weft of fields
edges a rippling stream of voile
with a fringe of weeping willow
tacks deep pockets of fustian seas.

From a billow of sky she makes sleeves
gathers shoulders of huckaback peaks
sets them into a twilight yoke.
She steals a hood from the gibbous moon

french-seams it to the sequinned night.
Spooling a skein of spider silk
hemming the guilt, the fray of doubt
she turns herself right side out.

 

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Moon Phases

Rising in the night, she caught her reflection in the glass,
saw the silver annealed in the moon of her face,
felt a mercury drop of fear – thought about the man,
how he’d glossed his way into her heart,
disturbed the settle of her dust – how she’d lost her poise
when he’d possessed her, his ‘queen of the night’, his ‘oyster pearl.’

Later, she’d sensed a waning in him,
a shying from the waxing sheen of her ripeness,
indifference humped beneath the sheets.
At the quarter’s end when there were dues, he’d cut her adrift,
spin his line on a new moon. But she wasn’t born yesterday,
nor was she soft and clotted as curds.

Once, in a blue mood, she’d rounded on him,
bruising him with her dark side. ‘Loony,’ he’d called her then.
She could haul a tide between two shores, she was tough,
a chip off the old block, bound from birth to her earthy lot,
she couldn’t be phased by a hollow man. She cut him loose.
She’d reel him back in, in the fullness of time.