December Counterglow
After Flamenco Sketches, Miles Davis (1959)
Black streets glisten with the day's rain—
discharge blue stars
at my bare window. I wish
upon all that glitter for sleep.I miss my rainy-day cottage,
the sweet pea and freesia embrace
I traded
for a white balcony
to grow my flowering crown of thorns.Instead, I hang my head
down the long hall,
bouquet lingering—
rancid curry, cheap cigar.At night I run barefoot
through hypnagogic flashes
turnpike traffic
fleeing my new job.The boss squawks—
Napoleonic rants,
teeth grindingAfter sixty sleepless nights,
I barely trust my mind.
Still, I read signs:
Dip in Road. Falling Rock.My new man in an artist's black hat—
I cook for him. He leans on me,
takes my breath, then leaves
the lining of my stomach
rubbing against itself.I'm not love-sick,
I miss myself.Tonight, I leave
the frozen cyclone
over my bed.This night is Flamenco Sketches.
Its muted tones lull my head
to the gingham couch,
my mind at rest.A Persian cat appears—
unseen—
from the ethereal blueher puffy fur loops
the crooks of my arms,her head nuzzles my neck,
her blood hums in my ear.
