Deborah's "Resolution"

RESOLUTION


And so,
we finally fell asleep like that,
loose in each other’s arms,
exhaustion itself a ravishment,
emptied of arguing, scavenging
old ground of our history,
the long record of loving,
and loving badly.
At first light,
I woke for good,
each time I shifted,
breathing our smell
in the sheets. And I
thought back to the last
tired words you had spoken,
of that late winter midnight
you sat with the knife,
thinking only how
and where you would do it.
You did not even think
I would care.
It was your own white arms
that stopped you, the thin
curtain of skin, the pale,
raised ribbons of veins.
Innocent arms, you thought,
how can I hurt them,
the quiet in your voice
as you told me, its own
separate finality.
Now, one arm lay absent by my chest,
your face had turned away,
and there was nothing
I could do but listen
to your breath,
its soft suck, and release,
and lean into the pulse
in your throat,
like a steady step
on the solitary journey
of grieving.

Deborah's "Radiant Season"

RADIANT SEASON


If you come soon,
the budded tips of campion
will be split, the deep cerise
of coronaria, such delicate velvet
on the study, silver-green stems,
you cannot help but feel them,
and if it is morning,
the wild carrot rimmed with dew
along its fronded leaves,
its thick, hairy stalks,
I will spill in your palm
the brimming wet petals
of milky froth,
and touch your fingers
to the tight, indigo buttons
of bush pea, and the cupped
yellow silk of sundrops.
When you come,
flanged with light, separation
slipping from us
like sleep, like garments,
I will stand with my hands open,
I will take your hands
and hold them out
to all that is supple,
flowering, and wild.

Deborah's "The Angle Yet To Come"

THE ANGEL YET TO COME


What it must be like
to be without
the shawl of illusion,
to be past
all past consolations,
the difficult arts
of belief and blame,
to climb
by a means of falling,
a hauling up
of hands and voices,
unwinding the lifeline
that is scar and seam,
through years like rooms,
where to be motherless
is not to be unmothered,
and to be loved is not saved,
nor saved, spared
either burning bed or holy fire,
where truth is older, harder,
with no power to undo
and even bread is easier to share —
what must it be
ever to choose
without promise,
solace, or cease,
the stubborn stone
of the human.

Deborah's "Radiant Season"

RADIANT SEASON


If you come soon,
the budded tips of campion
will be split, the deep cerise
of coronaria, such delicate velvet
on the study, silver-green stems,
you cannot help but feel them,
and if it is morning,
the wild carrot rimmed with dew
along its fronded leaves,
its thick, hairy stalks,
I will spill in your palm
the brimming wet petals
of milky froth,
and touch your fingers
to the tight, indigo buttons
of bush pea, and the cupped
yellow silk of sundrops.
When you come,
flanged with light, separation
slipping from us
like sleep, like garments,
I will stand with my hands open,
I will take your hands
and hold them out
to all that is supple,
flowering, and wild.

Deborah's "Boy Blowing Bubbles"

BOY BLOWING BUBBLES


They erupt
with the suddenness
and ease of his laughter,
rising like the high,
wobbly syllables
of his singing.
Shimmering, drifting,
perfect in their roundness
as planets in a book,
they issue forth
from his lips
where he breathes
through the wand
like a birthday candle
he is wishing on.
Continuously,
they ride away
in the curve of leaves,
scoop of sky,
rolling without wind
through midsummer,
his gaze steady and lifted
as any creator
to the beautiful,
mortal world
he can still take
into his heart
without misgiving.

Deborah's "The third lesson:Betrayal"

THE THIRD LESSON: BETRAYAL


Let the wells
of our love
sicken

the forest
of our refuge
flame

let the fruit
of our desire
be as dust and barren

let there be
bitterness
anew with every sun

hatred
heralded
as rain

may the cradle
of our walls falter
and the seas writhe

may the moon
be riven
and the stars blister

and whatever sang
our joy
bite its tongue in two

and wail.

Deborah's "Leaving"

LEAVING

I was waiting for you
at the end of the long
gravel road that wound
through the woods,
the house barely visible
back in the trees,
two windows lit
and balancing
November’s early dark.
Walking out, I had watched
a sky turning from bone
to ash to black.
I had money and night
things stuffed in my bag,
I hoped you would see me
in the headlights.
A soft rain began.
It fell on the shoulders
of my upturned coat,
wet my face, my hair,
I could hear it falling
through the tough, hard
oaks and beeches,
the late autumn leaves
still stubborn on the trees,
sounding like birdshot,
or grains of sand
steadily, finely pouring.
And I thought suddenly
how I wanted to forget you,
forget everything,
that moment
go utterly blank,
so that I could
come back
and remember it
all from the start
to that waiting,
alone in the fresh,
cold night
and the rain
ticking, ticking.