The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton
My love weaves threnodies beneath my flesh, lifting
sensation as feathers thrust into darkening mapled skies;
his ink dips brightly into the hollows of my throat,
gathering new songs.
We are the sum of bad math gone astray,
gone into the woods of our own making
where creatures frolic and dance
within wavy subdivisions of marbled waters
that know no shame.
My love exhales the cooing of doves into my hair, twining
as branches rise up to meet the sun;
he twirls his fingers in the tides of my touch,
sounding like whales in the deep.
Dolphins click and weep into darkness of swirling seas
as oil makes its ugly surface rainbows, a travesty of lies
told sweetly to children as they tremble under their covers, knowing
nightmares are forming in the closets of imagination
and the grim brothers wait outside the glassy-eyed window,
their curtains drawn.
My love ascends, his words a horizontal purpose protruding
through masses of clouds that would turn wind's soft breath into howls
of mediocrity and destruction; he sows his seeds understanding
the imminent threat of droughts, of floods - still, he watches
the soil for tenderness after blood recedes into dusky distances,
his flute offering apologetic ballets of better days aloft;
there are glistening epiphanies beyond this hill,
awaiting archeologists eager, small shovels.
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