November – Stella Wulf




‘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.






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.






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.





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.