By: Lisa Trudeau
An Unscheduled Stop near the Grotto of Pan
perilous - the curve and the descent
the car is vinyl-lined an oven box
baking out last night’s gin in funky sweat
switchbacks centrifuging bile we stop
on the mountain’s far side to stretch and breathe
unstick our thighs my whooshing head
fucked up all afternoon with windows roaring wide
light stuttering through pines
the nearness of your arm on the seat beside mine
you contemplate the heat-warped plain below
cool as any Hitchcock blonde I want to touch
that untroubled arc behind your ear where gold begins
walk instead past megalithic walls
a goat path edged in thyme
the ancient mountain looms and breathes
volted with a wildness that lights me
like a bioluminescent bug
its blue air lifts me from myself
and I know what it means to be “called”
why Theban women raved panting
tang of ash and honey still on the bee
your sun warmed skin sweat-soaked clothes
my name a thought in your throat
Lupa
March. The stiffened floor snaps beneath your feet -
high arches, delicate long toes -
the air around you furs the sleeping house,
the woken room worries
new leaves toss the light, wrack the glass and scatter
shadows at your step-
“I’m afraid,” you prevaricate, teeth bone bright
still I let you in, wanting to please
the bed buckles, too small for sleep, your hair
a living thing fingering
the space between our breaths, your mouth
behind my ear - “best to hear”
your voice in my head resonates,
navigation for nights to come
where I’ll wait like a bat, rabid, rising
At the click of a latch,
a catch of breath,
darkness mapped where you claim your place
with one dark strand on my pillowcase.
Pottapaug
Water the color of tea splits at the fat of the paddle
a sound like mouths
and I forget because the day is mild
because purple iris bloom in shadowed verge
and laugh at your one naked leg
drifting through lilies
imagining unimagined beasts
black and green beneath pickerel weed
unseeable
in shallows slick with minnows
nesting bass all safe assumed
canopied by hemlock sighing where we stop
to rest our arms and backs aching from the draw
boat still rocking rocking
as the ripples of our wake tongue the gravel shore
Lisa Trudeau is a poet and former publishing professional. She lives in Massachusetts.
Comments