fold my bat wing heart away
Two poems now, and probably more later, on this last day of April. It went by so quickly!
The Life of Umbrellas
I want to live the life of umbrellas,
full of sudden openings, of stealth and travel.
To sometimes fold my bat wing heart away
and reach over your head
to close you in a bubble.
On the path across the Ponte Vecchio
in light drizzle, I would parasail you, keeping out
the scorch of a moghul-arched cloud,
the rattle of a strong gust. I might turn
inside out, becoming the reverse
of myself, and you could follow,
unsuiting as fast as gypsy fingers
find a pocket on a March day
in a square dotted with drops.
~Rachel Dacus
***
Two Bowls of Milk
Are two bowls of milk. They are round
and white and have nothing to do
with the moon. They have no implications
of blindness, or sight. They wait
on the doorstep like bowls
or like things that closely resemble
bowls in their stillness. The bowls do not
foreshadow cats. There are two
because two hands set them out
and each wanted to hold something.
Milk because not water. The curve of
milk against the curve of bowl.
~Stephanie Bolster
***
As has become usual the past few months, I am still way behind on comments, and LJ's ungodly slowness at home is just making things worse, but I do want you to know I truly, truly appreciate every comment on my remixes - on all my stories - and I will eventually answer all of them.
I'll probably begin reposting my remixes here in a little bit, with rambling commentary. I know you can't wait. *snerk* I am just glad it's over.
Of course, now I have five more stories to code and put up on my site, which I haven't updated since October. I can't even face the thought of that much coding and updating. *shudders*
***
I took today off and I am home and it is good. I think I will go out in a little while and get doughnuts and coffee.
***
The Life of Umbrellas
I want to live the life of umbrellas,
full of sudden openings, of stealth and travel.
To sometimes fold my bat wing heart away
and reach over your head
to close you in a bubble.
On the path across the Ponte Vecchio
in light drizzle, I would parasail you, keeping out
the scorch of a moghul-arched cloud,
the rattle of a strong gust. I might turn
inside out, becoming the reverse
of myself, and you could follow,
unsuiting as fast as gypsy fingers
find a pocket on a March day
in a square dotted with drops.
~Rachel Dacus
***
Two Bowls of Milk
Are two bowls of milk. They are round
and white and have nothing to do
with the moon. They have no implications
of blindness, or sight. They wait
on the doorstep like bowls
or like things that closely resemble
bowls in their stillness. The bowls do not
foreshadow cats. There are two
because two hands set them out
and each wanted to hold something.
Milk because not water. The curve of
milk against the curve of bowl.
~Stephanie Bolster
***
As has become usual the past few months, I am still way behind on comments, and LJ's ungodly slowness at home is just making things worse, but I do want you to know I truly, truly appreciate every comment on my remixes - on all my stories - and I will eventually answer all of them.
I'll probably begin reposting my remixes here in a little bit, with rambling commentary. I know you can't wait. *snerk* I am just glad it's over.
Of course, now I have five more stories to code and put up on my site, which I haven't updated since October. I can't even face the thought of that much coding and updating. *shudders*
***
I took today off and I am home and it is good. I think I will go out in a little while and get doughnuts and coffee.
***