1848: Aubade | Lisa Olstein
“Aubade”
Lisa Olstein
This is how it is to sleep
with deer nearby, invisibly around
in beds of flattened grasses,
wet muzzles wetted with dew
late, when it comes,
and early they are standing,
true prey, watching the air
with satellite-dish ears as they nose
the ground, crushing ferns
between tooth and hoof.
Forgive me if I touch your face
in place of another face,
with these fingers in the place
of other fingers, my own,
the ones I remember.
There is no end that does not end,
no going on that does not worsen.
The moment is far away.
The dents in my eyes are
where the future lives
but my eyes are closed.
Sleep ravels away from me.
One by one we gentle our loves
to the ground. This is how
it is to sleep near a sea
that sounds like the traffic
of familiar feet, the way rain sounds
to the sea, the way deer sound
to a cougar gliding across the field
at hungry dawn.
Of the few things I wanted then, I needed you.
Lisa Olstein
This is how it is to sleep
with deer nearby, invisibly around
in beds of flattened grasses,
wet muzzles wetted with dew
late, when it comes,
and early they are standing,
true prey, watching the air
with satellite-dish ears as they nose
the ground, crushing ferns
between tooth and hoof.
Forgive me if I touch your face
in place of another face,
with these fingers in the place
of other fingers, my own,
the ones I remember.
There is no end that does not end,
no going on that does not worsen.
The moment is far away.
The dents in my eyes are
where the future lives
but my eyes are closed.
Sleep ravels away from me.
One by one we gentle our loves
to the ground. This is how
it is to sleep near a sea
that sounds like the traffic
of familiar feet, the way rain sounds
to the sea, the way deer sound
to a cougar gliding across the field
at hungry dawn.
Of the few things I wanted then, I needed you.