days in the life of

life in the distance
from my corked bottle
is submerged in marine colours
my view slightly curved
distorted by the glass

time passes
as slowly as the glass
runs downwards

a son returns home
from military pursuits
doesn't stay with me any more
but with friends
who are more lively
not hampered by a bottle

a sister has found a new father
new family
will they please her better
than her old father and family?

today the sun glows
torches my glass
hot ball impossible to gaze upon
rain less frequent lately

today I lunch with friends
movement from my bottle difficult
life from a distance
has become comfortable for me now

my bottle
my iron lung

Dust

I thought I was familiar with all the details of my life. I thought I knew how the world fitted together around me. I wondered at the movement of stars, the way they strayed aross the vault of emptiness, filling it with glamour, ever following their set circumventions.

I vaguely grasped how the earth holds together instead of flying apart and whirling into the void. The way that mountain ranges rise, and fall back, the way that tides advance and retreat, the scent of trees, the cool, creamy night air, all fitted within its given parameters, despite the sheen of dust fuzzing the outlines. I felt all was in its rightful place, and my daily life fit the patterns laid out.

But last night my sister rang and told me that my father is not her father, and that my mother, long ago, loved another, and dreamed of a different life. I find that with the sheen of dust cleaned away, the stark outlines beneath are not the shapes I was familiar with at all.

Cubist Effects

In shaded increments,
brown/bronze/cream/gold,
her evolution is uneven,

developed in patches
like a cubist field of corn.

First the heart expands
beneath ripples of satin bodice,
glimmering crevasses of gold,

the neck, revealed,
is an offer of submission
to the light.

Her mouth, half stroke victim
and half coquette,

hopes for a sip of honey,
or at least the ability
to vocalize need again.

But the eyes are still cast in browns,
turned in shadows, the last
to acknowledge change.

Can the blessing of sunlight
dispell the chains of all those winters?