|Oct/Nov 2016 Poetry Special Feature|
(for the pregnant wife of a slain RCMP officer)
He is dead and she is
rounded with grief. Swelling
embryo within, a bud of apathy,
blossom of sorrow. Unable,
it seems, to be born(e).
is a bouquet arranged
in amethyst and the spun-glass
vessel, veined, barely contains
glossy fringes of yew, plump
fingers of aloe and hyacinth:
the fleeting sweetness of white
petals released on his last breath.
It is the Song dynasty revisited.
Burgeoning womb presses,
binds her core tight as tottering Lotus
feet twisted into shiny new moons.
White silk clasps soft broken bones,
clipped wings thwart escape.
It is an endless gestation without bridge
or door to save her. She twirls
an infinite circle to hollow
stages, all unlit. Floorboards are
barren, no longer littered with golden
lilies, strewn for the hopeful.
It is a Pointillist illusion, a masterpiece
framed in gilt and commanding reverence
in a hallowed gallery somewhere.
The art of shattering shadow
into a million points of brilliance. She
wonders, "Is this how Seurat coped?"
Someday, when finally freed of her
prisons, their rib-boned veneers, his
spirit will remain and hers will rise
in cumulous. Mistress of Zephyrus,
gowns fluttering, she'll hold winged keys
of maple seed to her painted lips.
She'll stand aloft, softly blow.