clair de lune

When the time becomes four parallel lines, I make a point to close my eyes and make a wish. It may be nothing more than a hopeless pagan ritual, but the release of all my irrational yearnings is nothing short of liberating. Last evening, as I drove under the foggy November sky, I saw the clock turn into dual elevens and I swiftly wished for the moon. It had looked perfectly luminescent from where I sat, a beacon of light in the starless void. As I drifted off to sleep later in the night, either by fate or the hand of God, I dreamt that my futile wish had come true.

I was sitting on the rooftop with braided hair and an ivory nightdress when the unexpected happened. Two angels, equal in both beauty and reverence, flew in from space with my grand present folded into their wings. Please tell us, they whispered in unison. What will you do with our friend, the moon, now that she is yours to keep? I thought about this for some time as they looked on. Well, I began. I suppose it would be awfully selfish to keep such a sacred gift to myself.

So I ordered them to cut the moon in two and I gave a half to you. A token for you to remember me by, I wrote in cursive scrawl on the accompanying card. The angels were so moved by my romantic little notion that they decided to take the gesture even further. They murmured an enchantment over my newly acquired satellite in hushed tones, and then turned to me in explanation when they were finished.

Whenever you speak softly into your piece of moon, they told me. He will hear it.
And the same for him? I asked.
The same for him.

I wept and kissed the feet of the two celestial messengers. They had cast a spell so tender that I was sure the constellations themselves were stirred by it. Inside, I too leapt for joy at the thought of communing with you through our lunar halves. How would it be possible for you not to love me now that I offered such a virtuous union?

In my waking life, do not be surprised if you catch me glancing up wistfully towards the moon. I’m simply mourning the departure of a dream so heavenly that it couldn’t last in the mind of one so tragically bound to earth.

the skull and its defender

Ran into your father today.

It made me think about all those memories ago when you were the stranger nestled in my shoulder. They all said, “If I were you, I wouldn’t trust him” but I did anyway. You pierced through bone and marrow and shot shivers down my spine. I’d like to think I did the same to you. I often imagined that when our blue eyes met and harmonized it brought a smile to God’s face. But I was young, and spent the rest of the time staring at my ankles. And you got scared or maybe bored, stopped reciting all that sappy prose you thought I’d find romantic. Still, I fantasized about our children. If I got chilly in dreamland, you were always there to extend some make-believe body heat.

“Daughter, you’ll grow thin on these backwards glances and restless grins,” the vicar said with true affect. “A love poem is the same as a death ballad, you’ll kill yourself from deep within.”

I agreed, and promised to kick the habit. Except nostalgia was a harder drug than I expected, and I found no rehabilitation center that would cure me. This little bird named The Recollection of You flew into my mind's eye and made quite the nest. All my better qualities infiltrated the area with bow and quiver to try and kill the creature but he remained. That is to say, you remain. After all these changing seasons, and slow weeks that turn to years, there are still shadows of you that send my heart into a bittersweet palpation without proper warning.

The grey clouds migrate in the same direction, as if they were a flock of Beluga whales caught in the sky. They move on. Time continues. The young grow old, and the old pass away. Yet I am stuck in a moment that never ends. The only thing that reassures me of my own existence is the sweet inhale and exhale of breath.

Your father told me to stop by and say hello sometime, but I don’t think I’ll be able to bring myself to. I would hate for you to find me so unchanged, and so in remembrance.

if you want to move on

pilgrim's progress

"The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep."

I’m persevering through this steady, upward climb. It’s a straight and narrow path, with more twists and obstacles than I’ve come prepared for. “You’re being set apart,” my guides say with weighed assurance. “Reaching the next peak is never an easy journey.” I nod in strained agreement, but find the ascension into greatness a bit more than I can handle. Former allies meet me on my way with gritted teeth that expose jagged grins and acidic words. When did friends become adversaries? Is this change of character recently acquired, or was I swayed long ago by attractive masks they wore?

On this course, my focus must never be pulled from the trail before me. Distractions tantalize me from my peripheral vision, and I stumble every time I turn my head to stare. I’m a weary traveler, and each step takes more determination than the one before it. The end feels no closer than it did ten miles before, and alternate paths flash at me like gaudy neon lights on the Vegas strip. How does one not get sidetracked on such a single-minded mission? Especially when the aligning forestry offers up both gratification and liberation from this longsuffering I endure.

Yet, despite their initial tantalization, I am not so enticed by these temptations. I have an assignment to complete, and a mountain to conquer. I promised my maker I would not waste time peering over my shoulder. I will not stop to lick my wounds, or drift around in my current surroundings. It is upwards and onwards, until I can no longer sense the burning in my thighs that escalating hikes are so notorious for.

I do not trek without aid, but sometimes I am lonely. Won’t you be my walking stick?

too much of water hast thou

"We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

Till human voices wake us, and we drown."

When I was small, I didn’t believe that people drowned. I thought they were merely escaping to some deep aquatic world hidden under the layers of sand. I’ve always gravitated toward the sea, and the sweet ecstasy it brings. There is no greater transcendence than a pair of lungs full of salty air and waves that nip at your ankles and toes. When I close my eyes and hear the gulls cry in the distance, I can almost picture the make believe sea town of my childhood. As I allow my imagination to roam free, I can faintly envision Ophelia and Virginia calling me to their underwater playground. They would have me retreat into the watery depths and be reborn into a mermaid.

So you see, when I ask you to take me to the sea it is only because you have touched me to the very core. You call me adorable and playfully stroke my chin. “What pretty hands you have,” you say in that tender, lulling tone. And when I am upset, “being flustered only makes you cuter,” is uttered from those lips. These words of yours are the oldest trick in the book, but they are winning me over all the same. Take me to the ocean and I’m yours.

I’m afraid that the sea could persuade me to do anything. It could convince me to throw myself into its waters. It could convince me to throw myself into your arms.