Lovers,
In The Garden of
Earthly Delights
They have taken refuge in a transparent
sphere in the midst of nudes riding
unicorns, gryphons and camels, reveling
among gigantic birds and berries.
through the slightly opaque screen,
their bodies seem ethereal, a silent
reproval of the orgy of sepias, pinks
and reds around them.
From a distance, the cracked glass recalls
a crystal egg about to hatch, a veined
butterfly’s wing nestled in a voluminous
black flower.
Or are the lovers seated inside a dewdrop
blown from a gold-petalled mouth, born
from a flower’s heart?
In their greenhouse, they barely move,
fearful of tearing the diaphanous veil.
He stares to her right, his breath flowing
on the nape of her neck, a gentle stroke
on her belly, a wish or promise for a
child to come.
Eyes half-closed, she dreams of bearing
his child. Her heart sings the Magnificat
at her lover’s touch. Rejoicing he is no
Archangel, she
rests a hand on his knee.
They hide, still, cautious. Anything could
destroy the invisible net setting them apart,
the brightest spot on the canvas.
Words, even love words, can have sharp edges,
distend the perfect shape. Their hands, lovers’
winged fingers,
speak in a motionless caress.
First published by
Parting Gifts
From Under
Brushstrokes (Press 53 2015)
Expectations
Face to face, standing in an immobile boat, two lovers are enveloped
by a lapis lazuli glow as though out of a painting by Miró revisited
by Klein: the deep sea evaporates around them, freeing a school of
red fish gliding at ease as in an aquarium: only their fins flicker like
fireflies around the nascent crescent, a silent witness to that still
scene:
the boy holds a loaf of moon in one hand while in the other shines a
scarlet star, color of the girl’s bonnet. Slightly bent over his
offerings,
she reflects, her crossed hands weighing her breasts heavy with
promises and
songs.
First published by
Knot Magazine
From Under
Brushstrokes (Press 53 2015)
Tea at Chez Paul’s
We ate Schtengels at Chez Paul's,
twisted breads sprinkled with
coarse salt
clinging to our
lips.
We could see the sea enfolding
us
through the tall bay windows
of the semi-circular Swiss
teahouse.
You described a Phoenician Tale
just for me,
how the mountain slopes
reddened each spring
with Adonis’
blood,
how this delicate flower,
truly and duly Lebanese
has come to be called a red
poppy, an anemone,
with all its melodious
variations,
alkhushkhash,
un
amapola,
un
coquelicot,
ed anche un papavero…
We walked through a field
scattered
with red poppies bright as when
Ishtar
sprinkled nectar
on her beloved’s blood.
Time seemed
elastic then,
space infinite.
I wished to bring home a handful
of scarlet light,
to keep the softness of its
wrinkled petals
alive a while longer.
The moment I cut Adonis’ flower,
hanging like a broken limb, its
corolla fell over my hand,
head too heavy with dreams.
No wonder
blossoms tremble
on their fragile
stem.
Sometimes love is only real when
not uprooted.
Isn’t there a
geography of every emotion?
not a precious, intricate Carte du
Tendre,
but a trail of
forgotten footsteps mapping
every heartbeat, every motion?
A stairwell, a car, a booth, a parking lot,
a streetlight, a gateway,
an old-fashioned réverbère,
a Bus Stop or maybe a tree, a tree stump,
a moss-covered path, a pond,
a
small creek, a flat stone,
a hill, a porch or even a wooden bench?
Take the poppy, for
instance. It will only breathe
and give joy at its birthplace.
I can still
feel the small flower melting
into liquid silk in my palm.
I held the red
petals to my cheek
like a morning kiss while you
kept telling how Ishtar
or as some may
say, Astarte, often mistaken for Isis,
was truly her
Phoenician incarnation,
before she was ever called
Aphrodite or Venus.
I remember how
you talked and talked
until we both stepped into
Ishtar's temple.
First
published by Nimrod Literary Journal, Nimrod/Hardman Pablo Neruda Prize Finalist
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