A pantoum for a winter evening
Soft snow falling
Mysteries in hidden faces
Lost memories calling
Eyes whisper with brief gazes
Mysteries, hidden faces
Warm glances, tender touches
Eyes whisper with brief gazes
Sweet comfort, hesitant rushes
Warm glances, tender touches
Fire crackles, hearth heat
Sweet comfort, hesitant rushes
In the silence, our hearts beat
Fire crackles, hearth heat
Lost memories calling
In the silence, our hearts beat
Soft snow falling.
Win win you think
and she knows your thoughts,
that you don’t imagine
hers differ.
They do.
She wants you, coming and going.
Sit beside for both parts of the journey,
find moments of connection
have those conversations
that are skipped in the day to day.
Those too rare times when you’re together
with nothing to do but hear each other.
She wants words and laughter and plans.
You leave early. A note on the counter:
meet you there.
She puts her foot on the gas pedal
and travels lonely,
as usual.
Win?
or lose?
If I were being honest,
(truth hurts, my love)
I’d say that while the quotidien care
powers an appreciative couplehood,
sometimes cares require more than chores.
Sometimes, it needs a hug (you first)
or cooking a meal (with vegetables) and setting candles on the table.
Sometimes it means holding hands instead of striding ahead,
and no sighs of impatience or vibrations of irritation.
(Yes. We feel those, when you’re pretending, and it spoils the effort).
Sometimes your diligence with household chores is enough to know you care,
but sometimes
we need more.
It’s not the chocolates,
flowers,
romantic dinners,
sexy lingerie.
It’s just the words
and actions.
Fixing the brakes,
warming the car,
clearing off snow
before I head to work.
That’s romance.
That’s love.
It is so sad
that you eschew fantasy and romance in your world.
Without fantasy, where is imagination? Where is spark? Where is possibility?
Without romance, where is connection? Where is life? Where is compatibility?
You, ‘realist’ are deluded.
Facing reality means seeing above, below, beyond, and through.
Recognizing the power of the metaphor.
Feeling the electricity of a touch, when your love has gone.
Celebrating what may be.
It means believing in hope.
A realist is a dead shell lapped upon the beach,
while a great ocean signs beside it and carries whales
and sailing ships off over the horizon.
You can still be sensible,
and see the magic of the world.
In the black room,
the light from the
DVD player claims
it’s 12:00.
12:01.
12:02.
Every minute
counting down to you.
12:03
Are you dreaming of me?
She studies his torso,
surveys lines and curves,
tracks
sinews
. and
. flesh,
melts,
wishes she was butter:
s p r e a d o u t ,
simmering,
glistening
in those crevices,
turning into warm caramel
within his embrace.
The streets are not the same
but they still echo with the memory
of our steps.
I still hear your laughter
as we held hands and ran through the rain.
Ever after, I hummed Neil Sedaka on that street
and contemplated surrealism.
Decades later,
I can still hear our laughter.
In the photograph, you are on a swing in city park,
the yellow paint on the support bar is worn and flaking,
you grip the chain, suspended on the tiny rubber seat
your tall man body mashed.
You’re smirking so wide your dimple dances with the light in your eyes
Our first French kiss lingered in the air,
as our future flashed fireworks over your head.
.
.
This photo sits on my desk, and makes me smile every day.
She leaves the wine bottle in the bottom desk drawer
undoes two buttons on her white blouse,
French cuffed, of course. Lace peeks out.
Jeweled pendant lies between her breasts, the chain
offers a direction.
She stands, displacing gravity to expand the view.
Her black pumps click on the linoleum in the hall.
She pretends to talk on her cell phone,
pausing by his open door; her chest rises on a
tingling laugh she knows he won’t resist.
Her black pencil skirt covers the assets tightly,
in taunting style,
“See you later, then!” she tells her imaginary
phone companion,
as she strolls to the photo copier room,
trailing temptation behind her
without a backwards glance.
.
.
(A poem based on a new novel project).
Shawn L. Bird 