Poetry

Poetry
by
Allison Creighton

Eternal City

Somewhere in the heart 
of Rome's open air dusk
near a fountain's rushing waterfall,
we sit over fruit and wine
with only silence between us.

I know that you know 
I've had enough of the game-
your pushing and pulling
and pushing and pulling-
passion and fire,
then only distance.

As we sit two men draw near. 
One plays the violin 
as the other man holds roses. 
The song is sweeter
than any we've danced to;
the notes fall from heaven 
on the soft winds around us- 
the song-it is wrapping
around me, without you.

Although you make no gesture
to the man bearing the roses
he remains before us
with a look of confusion
as the music plays on like a dream.

At last he holds out a single rose
and opens his hand 
for the price you will pay.

You swiftly slide the rose
across the marble table. 
I can't bear to meet
the heat of your gaze-

we have traveled so far for this ending.
 
 

The Rehearsal Dinner

They kept raising glasses and making speeches as I stared at the light through my wineglass, and I kept leaving lipstick residue on the rim of the glass-"Everlasting Burnt Sugar," while your father spoke of you, the bride, as a little girl, how you always were a Type A personality, and someone said, "Gee Andy, I wonder where she gets that from."  Your sister said that with all you've been through you've never let 'em see you sweat, and I wondered how you've always been able to hide your sweat so well.  She said Daniel's the only one who's been able to tame your savage soul.  I thought of The Little Prince on his tiny planet, and his friend, the fox, who said one runs the risk of weeping if he lets himself be tamed.  I'd forgotten what he meant by this "taming," but then I remembered that it has to do with establishing ties.  I felt guilty to be thinking of myself; I wanted to be thinking only of you, of all these wishes for your health and happiness, these stories from long ago that your sisters were telling, but I kept getting lost in the scent of my chardonnay mixed with my fading perfume and the sight of the couple across from me who kept kissing so tenderly as the voices began blurring and dimming, the endless speeches and toasts at the microphone-
all of these words.  Words of utter, undying love.
 
 

Shemirah

After your body had been through
the ritual washing-
gently cleansed,
then dressed in white shrouds-
the watcher took his place beside you.

Did he see your life in a flash
and then more slowly,
the letters that fell
from between thin yellow pages 
weightless
as your footsteps
light in love-

Did he hear the echoes
of your wondering whispers
your weeping wishes,
echoes of your dying breath-

Did he comfort your soul
with psalms 
by candlelight 
until sunrise seeped in 
through veiled windows-

Did he bow his head 
in a silent prayer all his own
before departing

into dazzling sunlight-
 

Shemirah is part of traditional Jewish death ritual in which the body is "guarded" or  "watched" from the time of death until burial. 
 
 

Steam

I hold the hissing machine
against the wall 
of an empty room-
once a dining room,
a gathering place for decades
in the home 
that was my grandparents',
the home that was my father's.

Steam surrounds me
and rises
over the wallpaper 
that is finally beginning to yield.

Layers of paper
begin to appear,
but it's hard to tell 
where one pattern ends
and another begins,
the prints of one 
blending into another,
a collage of flowers and gardens,
the grand design of ages:
Japanese gardens 
and marigolds
and gardens of blood-red roses,
wildflowers passing
from one lover's hand to another.

I climb a ladder 
to get to the highest reaches.
Plaster rains down
and as the paper falls 
from the wall in sections,
I imagine them sitting- 
here, in this room
when the walls were adorned with roses-
glasses clinking
children laughing
songs rising like light
to the crystal chandelier,
sparkling joy above them.

When the walls are bare
I step into the bathroom
for a shower
and as I undress I see 
fragments of wallpaper
stuck to my skin
along with a layer 
of plaster and dust.

Hot water rushes down
and it all falls away.
My body is washed clean
as the steam rises
and the words 
from the first book 
come to me,
as it is said:

You are dust,
and to dust you shall return.
 
 

The Storage Chest

At sixty-five
my mother still doesn't talk 
about losing her mother
at thirteen,
when she was just beginning
to grow into herself.

But today I ask her
to share a memory
and I see a mist
enclose her.
Her shoulders rise
as she breathes in deeply and says
it's funny the things we remember.

She offers me a moment
of her mother
in dusty daylight
gently lifting sundresses 
from a storage chest one spring-
how she'd closed the lid cautiously
as if it might break.

When my mother stops speaking
she stares down at her hands
as if she is somehow covering
all that is stored inside,
beneath the weight of years
and years of seasons.

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