Sometime After The Betrothal
Looking at the photograph of our day
with red hair sprawling over the wind
like sorrel, a rampant weed
suggestive of her gypsy roots, her gallivant.
There under the oak’s refuge,is the person I left behind -- watching grass
and wild ponies paint the field with motion,
maybe wondering which ones
descended from those who were hitched
to that wagon hauling a bohemian heiress
and her powerful belongings east.
I have shed my addictionto storytellers and tarot cards,
stones and stars; and yet
the queen of the Magyars
still haunts, lining my pale skin
like the luminous satin
of a trunk or cape. And if you were
to snap a picture of me now
in this room of glass and steel,
she would appear --
shadow permeating form, breath through body.
A double exposure seenby those few who know
its natural, not intended.
Just there, always there, indelible.