Tryst

Frank Stanford

Wherever you are
you are reading
the palms of your mirror
the water grass
of your breath
grows in the belly
of the glass
sewing an insignia
on the dark
sweater of the sailor
your lover
wherever I am
waiting to drown
in the tambourine
you keep in your bedroom
your eyes of rum
to be drunk by a mutineer
the rite of your hair
the last request of a priest
I haven't seen
the seance you call
your waist
in such a long time
I lie awake at sea
it is so
quiet in the afternoon
I dream
of the hills that bleat
like the choked lambs
of your fingers so easy
to find the splinters
in the driftwood
your deadly fingers going
over my letters
like starfish making love
wherever you are
I want the last drink
of brandy which seeps
from your lips on the pillow
in your sleep I know you
fortune teller
of sinister signs
wooing the fullness
of the coastland's moon
braiding the wind through
the strands where you
can hear the doors coming
open at night
letting in the cold palms of darkness
which violate
the eleven virgins
of your candelabra
wherever you are
the way your neck lists
to the side like a ballerina
when you come near an open fire
where I am
your calves are bottles of sangria
from Portugal
poured away at the same time
there was never
another woman
dressed in lightning
like you
my lady of death
a stranger
casting a shadow
she doesn't know
waiting for someone
to pass by the window
lying in wait
for you
with a small revolver
a child I have
never seen
with no thread
in her needle
the thought of you deep
in your sleep
your hands meant
for the harpoon's plumage
meadows under the water
of the pursued
dreaming you could see my face
in the dark limbs of sails
scarred as it was
long ago I saw you
sitting at a desk
reading a book
I thought you were
playing the harpsichord
wherever you are
with your eyelashes of chants
when I return
how can I tell
these children
their mother
the mistress
was blind

Ginny Stanford