[b]Ruminations over morning tea[/b]

Maybe it’s time to start again
and reinvent myself
in warmer weather wearing wool
only when winter thoughts
plague me at night
as I miss the morning snow
and white Christmases I used to know
and white pages of books printed on good paper
not newsprint, brown and rough as I turn pages
of my days
to see what comes after
the heroine decides

that maybe it’s time to start again
and reinvent herself
on other shelves
turn her life from drama/mystery
into bestselling comedy
erasing all the misery
of missing midnight cups of tea
with people giving sympathy
like crumbs to park pond ducks
like candy to a crying child
like coins to a weeping fountain
that one day thinks

maybe it’s time to start again
and reinvent myself
as water in a bedside glass
or rain that falls on suburban grass
or holy water blessing multitudes at mass
and so the repentant prodigal child
comes home
to start again and reinvent herself
as fatted calf.

[b]They spoke about a sunrise[/b]

If you could, would you,
he asked at the crossroads
of Cross Street and High.
She smiled with eyes
that didn’t answer his question
or give reason why she should.
Listen, he said,
close your impenetrable eyes
and I’ll ask you again.
Could you, if I would–
she stopped him there,
I don’t know if I should.
Let’s walk awhile
a mile, maybe two
down to where the sky roses
grow, says he.
Maybe, and she stepped
lightly on his toes
with a teasing smile.
And the shadows held hands
and left empty spaces
where they would have stood.

[b]When the doorbell didn’t ring as promised[/b]

You left me hanging
by the rope
woven from the ever-tightening,
lengthening list
of ways the world doesn’t look
like the fingerpainted fiction
I foolishly fashioned as a child.

You left me holding
on to what I thought were wishes
blown from birthday candles
that turned out to be the smoke
that chokes me,
black like the scarf I wear
in memorium
as I bury you every day
(yet you rise up, always, won’t you stop).

You filled me with
the tears that every poem is made of.
In the hole left from your absences
I will drown,
I will drown.

by Shiloah Matic � 2002
([email]smatic [at] wesleyan [dot] edu[/email])

[b]Author’s Note:[/b]
Shiloah currently has poetry published online at gerationrice.com and has contributed to the December issue of Soapbox Girls, a webzine for women.

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