Thursday, June 27, 2013


    Sometime After The Betrothal

 Looking at the photograph of our day
In Dartmoor, I see a stranger. A girl
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 addiction
to 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 seen
by those few who know
its natural, not intended.
Just there, always there, indelible.

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