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Thursday 24 May 2012

Carolyn Srygley-Moore-

Ode to Horatio & Other Saviors

The moon is a window filled with bright winds.

It is more than a door.          It has no hinges
by which to cape the sea with vermillion light.

Where are you now Horatio?    The dog

bitten to death for the sake of love.

The imagination sustains itself by virtue of

waterholes & its lions & its elephants.

By virtue of vengeance.        Frightening, the enemies

one garners over the years.         Are they
enemies, really, like Lady MacBeths, time-traveling?

Scrubbing the lot of blood from their hands?

The moon is a window          dragging the sea

as a man was dragged behind a pickup truck,
having enemies, by means of only his skin timbre.

Horatio was a dog not man, a dog owned by a virulent

woman.      I saw him quake in the crate

I lifted the body from the ice chest.          I laughed
not thinking it real....The imagination sustains

itself.      No plank leads from the ship

to step upon, into safety. No plank leads from the stern
or bow.    I say to my husband

save me! You must save yourself this time

he says; you must be your own indelible savior.

The Word Crazy
Solitude shines on the balcony like the whites of eyes.
I'm crazy he says            I'm crazy for you       the rain pounding.
Children leave their existences unexamined
they clutch solitudes    like playthings: for indeed they are
peopled with sailboat & sailor         with the Middle C
stretching the pianist's hands             one octave to another.
I'm crazy he says            I'm crazy for you.  The great tiger
is dying.    He can hardly walk the rockface
down to the source of water.           I forget that, the source
of water, as if I too encounter a great enclosure
as if I too live in the zoo.            I'm crazy he says crazy
for you.           A card player's chair sits alone mid-field.
Who is it calling the trump?        WHo is it saying
crazy like it's a good thing            confirming the landscape
of lithium & zoloft & no           such things need no detox.
They are what the body lacks & needs in replenishing.
I'm crazy he says     I'm crazy for you.        & you mount my lips
with your kisses your flayed tongue your inordinant unpride.

The Things We Leave By the Sea

This morning the sky is rice paper
meant to be sketched upon: monsters, mostly monsters.
This morning the bankrupt piano
is playing Vivaldi of its own accord.
I am frightened for someone. It is not for me
that I draw my breath inward, sharply,
as if facing down a ski slope that I cannot ski.
              Darling, you forgot your shoes!
You wore your blue sandals & the funeral's black dress
to the art exhibit. You forgot your shoes.
You polished your nails blue       so they would peek through
the sandal opening.   The strap is unbroken, unbroken.
We leave such things by the sea,
our black funeral dresses              our unbroken sandals.
             The sky is not paper but parchment.
I dreamt of an inheritance I broke, one piece after the other:
cream colored elephants, castles, riders.
Was that last night? Time is an inheritance.
I tuck my knees to my chin & dream of safety.
Dream of rocking beneath the table      as war went on around us.
Domestic violence is a kind of terrorism.
If the mother thinks death is advancing
what do the children feel?          O the sky is a parchment
you drew your teddy bear monsters upon.
            It ripped like a mirror     & you stepped on through
to the other side of descendance.
You stepped on through. 

Carolyn Srygley-Moore is the author of three books of poetry, most recently Songs Scared from the Conch // as Voices Carry. She is a Pushcart and Best of the Web nominee.  Widely published, Carolyn lives in Upstate New York with her husband,daughter, and three dogs. Interviews with Carolyn are accessible via the Google machine..

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