Doppelganger

In the province no one visits, she's still
waiting to be born. I can
almost feel her breath
brushing by me like a dark wish,

almost hear the lullabies
burrowed deep in time when I lay
under stars small fires, waiting

under sun's spiral, waiting
under vacant wash of sky
beyond barriers of sight, waiting.

If I empty my head of names
If I empty my pocket of coins
If I empty my shoes
will I feel the imprint of a palm
or hear a voice that fuses silence?

In thought's last extravagance
we reach toward each other
intent and unaware, and I imagine
fears that shape her nights
until the world leaps back to brightness.

Yet, she never quite appears
even in the downdrop of sleep
and the moment is never the moment
where grace begins.

                        2

She's above me
leaning into the pond.
From the still, clear water
I stare up
mouthing her words.

As I drift on the current
and beyond, she follows,
sinks a stone through me,
then extends her hand.
We exchange places.

Water covers her eyes, her mouth.
I inhale her
and I am cold. Very cold.
Peering into the blue facade
I shield my eyes
One reflection kisses,
the other kills.

She sinks through amber depths
into green awareness and then
rises to the surface
singing of a more transparent time,
wishes wished for,
granted,
and soon gone.

Night rises like dark wine.
Under the moon's bald eye
we float together, the shadow
of one lying darkly on the other.
.
                        3

she waits for something
in the street of narrow homes
no roads visible
only sinews of paths

in the long dark
a shadow walks
an echo of footsteps
the sweet smell of cooling grass

a breath of wind
and everything moves with care
it is the country
and it is quiet

looking up at her house
with its freight of sleep
roof pitched hard against horizon,
light slivering through shuttered blinds

she sees herself in the room's calm center
cold words stain the air
love darkens on the kitchen floor
long memories cut deep as splintered glass

humming against the cold
she could be anyone until she walks
back up the path   takes the easy way
in through the kitchen door
and disappears into her only life
intimate     familiar      and mine


 

© Ruth Daigon