The Innisfree Poetry Journal www.innisfreepoetry.org by Rose Solari THAT DAY She was beginning "Here's to Life," when I thought, oh.When I got to the reading, Reuben had already heard the news, and we talked about her and D.C., about her and Miles, about how she never in her lifetime got the fame that she deserved, how it should have been different. And I don't recall just what was playing on the way home--"Fever?" "But Beautiful?"--when I started crying, seeing her walk into One Step Down on the arm of her bassist, beautiful Charles, on New Year's Eve, late, of course, which was the whole point-- how she kept us waiting, while she shrugged off her mink and settled herself at the keyboard, lifting her face up and into the circle of light at the mike as if she could taste it, and nodding once, slowly, at Charles, while we held our breath. SOMEWHERE BETWEEN FOUR AND FIVE A.M. Somewhere between four and five a.m., the soul gets restless, leaves the body. You wake to the kite-string tug, know all you can do is wait, filling the time with books, self-scrutiny, or scotch until that filament of self settles back in. Years ago, you had a chance for a different life. A door opened, but you were looking elsewhere, listening to someone's bad advice, and didn't hear the hinge creak, the voice whispering, this way. Or perhaps you did, but thought your chances infinite, told yourself you'd come back. You could always come back. Those are the breaks, your mother would say if she heard you now, and she'd be right. But sometimes, you know you see it, that unlived life. It passes quick, in the corner of your eye. You glimpse yourself, what you might have been, a face that could be but is not your own. She isn't angry. But she knows everything you have missed, and is writing it down. ISLAND, WITH GOATS The hard-hooved, thick-furred bodies packed so tight with themselves there is no room for doubt. The dark tulips of heads, holding the otherworldly eyes. Three points of an open arrow they cross high grass, bending the wind on their silken ears, or wrestle in pairs--forelegs raised in friendly threat--then collapse into each other, their small horns touching. Unable to see the failure in myself, I thought the world had let me down. Only the goats, in their indifference, helped. For almost thirteen months, I gave myself to them as you, entranced, might sacrifice days and nights to a newborn child or a foreign city. I mapped their devouring search for weeds and water; I memorized the ancient shapes of shadows their bodies cast; I lulled myself, when I could not sleep, with the sweet and sober music of their footfalls. WINE TASTING Dionysus would slap you silly if he could see you now--sniffing and twirling and sipping and, dear god, spitting it out. What mortal arrogance, the mess you've made of his gift. Now, let's start over. Throw back your head and drain this puny glass with one loud gulp. Then send--no, roar--for a cup carved out of animal horn, deep enough that when you reach the bottom, you'll see two horns, two hands, two mouths. Then you'll be worthy to grab the woman on your left--who feels, as you do, now, the rush of sweet blood to the brain and to the thighs--and put your grape-stained mouth to hers. We are, all of us, nothing more than empty vessels that the god can fill with his heart-made, heart-poured wine. Drink, you fool, and love. Become divine. © Copyright 2006-7 by Cook Communication |