another Irishman I love.
After Sleeping on the stairs of Notre Dame- wake stiff
hipped from love,
before huddling under the Tour Eiffel break baguettes in the
morning light,
allow the crumbs to scatter like dandelion kites spreading
sparks.
Put raspberries on fingertips - point as if they were
wands, command them.
Moments snap past –
are they shooting stars or air support from Camp Pendleton?
are they shooting stars or air support from Camp Pendleton?
Sounds of kissing before battle or passing daily
gesture should be the same.
But they are not-
I make a digital image of your lips pressing upon mine.
“Baise-moi”
The French say when prone.
Holding the emotion in the circle
of my palms.
I cuddle into your lean torso for
safety.
You’re a swan with a flickering of
LED police lights.
Is that sand or bread crumbs in
your bed?
A trick Aurora Borealis but just
as magical.
Can we feed the birds the specs of
joy?
Embrace me as if it is our last
moment.
poem copyright Caroline Gerardo
3 comments:
Love this, Caroline. I am reading a collection of Heaney's translations of some fabulous Polish poetry, and being in his space again after some absence has made his death a more personal loss . . . Your evocation is lovely. Thanks for that! c
I don't know why it left a comment form this blog -- I don't even do that one anymore. I'm wanted to write you a note but will get out of this space, which I deplore, and go to the site I do keep. . . . Hope you are well!! Carla
You really have got the knack for poetry.
Post a Comment