Tuesday, December 10, 2013

On A Missing Friend

The Whereabouts Of Johanna

Take seriously every unknown wanderer who personally inhabits the inner world,
since they are real because they are effectual.

                                                                      Carl Jung

 You have disappeared for the day –canceling nothing,

but on your desk there is a tea cup

painted with blue willows and bridges. Something

you haven’t used in years or rearranged

on the cabinet’s shelf.


Always stored in back, it was left  barely visible

like the poetry you used to write

with unique details and characters. The sailor’s wife

who strolled the shoreline waiting

for his return. Sea horses

littered the beach around her, dead and delineating

keys to holes in the horizon

where spirits passed through.


Or the sculptor’s mistress

who curtained the window

with her wide sleeves and skirt

as she watched rain

wash over cobblestones

envying a permanence

she could never share with him.


 I haven’t heard of these women (or others)

since you sipped chamomile

from that same cup

telling me they appeared in a dream

and your duty was to transcribe them.


Seven years ago, you sat there

holding this blue garden in your hands, deliquescing

in to a drama that was not your life, but still

compelled you to leave, lament

for more than a day. The time

it takes for cut lilies to open.

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