Issue 2:2 | Poetry | Thomas Meyer
From At Dusk Iridescent
The Jargon Society Press, 1999
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Because
Siberian blue
iris, when they do
bloom
a few still do
incredible
azure stammers
the wind my
baited breath
slurs
trying to
say
a-ne-mo-ne
thinking that’s
what they were.
This news
I’ve waited so long for
on the bank up the drive’s
curve.
Epithalamium
Susan and Joseph are come
unto the garden
and under an arbor
vines of two stocks
knit their tent
so tightly none
can tell one’s tendrils
from the other
hung heavy and purple
with grapes
days beyond them
turn to wine
Le Tango Cretois
her legs willows
his feet sparrows
her hands swallows
his thighs oak
trace upon that dust and
air their swift
and song’s bright
trail a red skirt
slack ribbons his hair
glistens hers spills
like milk from an up
turned cup
Sun God
Ask your brothers, uncles,
cousins,
where? Was it far from here
you were born?
You eat what they eat.
Drink what they drink. All
the same
You’re different.
You know the boy. The one
pride
and daydreams
isolate.
Even running, playing,
better than his younger
half-brothers. Who was
his father?
every chance he gets
looks for himself
in mirrors.
Puts down what he’s working
on
to stare from the window.
Music his complete undoing.
And cries.
And calls out.
Beside which river?
Under which willow?
And why? For whom? When?
Open but guarded.
He can’t quite learn
how the dance is done.
Shy and careful.
Among friends.
Alone.
