“The heartless dark begins calling: this is the word.
You have heard me once before and shall again.” ~ Michael Burkard,from “The Parallel”
In my dream, the poet says, “Come to Pueblo, Colorado. Make me a believer.” My mother tries on a bright green dress and looks for a glass to match. She asks me if I like Fiesta ware. I hide all of the things I have bought behind the driver’s seat in my old, orange VW bug, and lock the door, while Paul tells me not to buy him any biking clothes because he doesn’t ride his bike any more. I tell my mother that I want to attend the poetry reading, and she agrees, but stands in the back with her friend Alice. I sit on the floor in the front but then realize that it’s an interpretive dance presentation, and I know that my mother will hate it, and I think that i should leave, but the poet comes and sits next to me and shows me the label from a ramen package. I ask him how it can taste like shrimp but contain no seafood. He points to a long word and tells me that it’s a chemical name for shrimp. The dance routine is better than I had hoped, but when I go to the back of the room to find my mother, she isn’t there. I think to myself that my mother would never wear a bright green dress.
Music by Cocorosie, “Gallows”
I used to love winter
In the past, I was inclined to love winter,
and I listen to my body.
Rain,rain, like a love letter pours licentiously
from the imprudent heavens.
Winter. A cry. An echo
hungry for the embrace of women.
In the distance, the steamy breath
of a horse carrying clouds…white, white.
I used to love winter, to walk joyfully to my
rendezvous in space drenched in water.
My love used to dry my short hair with
Long hair luxuriant with wheat and chestnuts.
She was not content with singing
I and winter love you,
so stay with us! She would warm my heart
on two hot gazelle fawns.
I used to love winter,
and I would listen to it,
drop by drop.
Rain, rain like an appeal to a lover,
Pour down my body!
Winter was not lament pointing
to the end of life. It was the beginning. It was hope.
So what shall I do, as life falls like hair?
What will I do this winter?
~ Mahmoud Darwish