Grace Marie Grafton
I want to sell the moon some player joy,
I want to help her complete the body of
night and her lacy underpanties, not for
the hoi polloi to view her sweep away
petals of a thousand dahlias whose sudden
name change tips space into a tizzy.
The entire demand in the pupil of the snap
pea’s eye is calculated to create later trust
in space’s slope, the new moon’s
knuckle music, the built instant – as in
the weightless vector which guarantees
sleep-solitude to earth’s thousand mountains.
I love the small blooming of the moon,
I love white dahlias’ sacrifice.
Glances spill into the path of moon’s
erasure of color, how it helps
the chatter and rattle go mute,
helps me build instant’s eye.
Plump up the bolster on the back of
the chaise, the wrens are returning
to leave messages among the twigs.
If we lie here long enough, they’ll
volunteer all the news about their trip,
even though their talk is indecipherable.
So much is repeated and yet it’s worth
changing the pillow case and brushing our
teeth. Please hand over the melon bowl
while I offer you a sip of mint tea.
Enamel toenail polish, the reclusive
ginger-plant blossom proffering
its bull’s eye intensity once we lift
the heart-shaped leaves off its
hysterically elongated petals.
Mysteries that salve our days.
Our trip to the coast where the chaos
of being alive is strewn grinningly
along the high water mark.
He hands me a glacier.
I say, ‘Do gloves come with this?’
I want to give it back, except for
the turquoise lakes – or are they pieces
of frozen color? The glacier
seems too big for me to manage.
I wonder how he got it this far
on his own. Was it on his own?
One never knows another’s secrets.
Not, at any rate, all of them.
Marvelously intact, it doesn’t drip.
Not yet. I think, ‘Is this a subtle
invitation to travel with him to Iceland
or the Arctic?’ Someplace cold enough
we’d feel the need to stick close together
for warmth if nothing more.
Would there be inns with cozy rooms,
comforters, hot tea and a large
picture window from which to view
in leisure the growth of the blue/
white glacier we’d been allowed
to park on the nearest mountain, wave to
through the thick glass, think of
as the perfect, unobtrusive pet?
‘Thank you, I say. ‘Thanks.’
Grace Marie Grafton’s most recent book, Jester, was published by Hip Pocket Press. Recent poems appear in basalt, Sin Fronteras, Ekphrastic Review, Peacock Journal and others.