Broken Porcelain Cup
© Surazeus
2018 10 16
The frail porcelain cup with yellow blooms
cracks on smooth wood floor of the living room
as the black cat skitters into the hall
tail high as the telephone pole in rain.
The old woman in the long yellow dress
stares at piano keys of shining ivory
and remembers green grass of the back yard
with soft yellow roses wet after rain.
She closes her eyes at touch of his hands
on her belly, and his breath on her neck,
and how his whispered words struck at her heart
like wood keys twanging taut piano strings.
Floating on cold river in warm sunlight,
she feels her body become the landscape
of fields and rolling hills fertile with life
as bees gather pollen from apple blooms.
Slipping from grip of his hands on her hips,
she leaps into cool shade of the white house
to sit trembling on the piano bench,
and sings, "I come the garden alone."
Cheeks flushed as she sings the hymn about Jesus,
she peeks through lace curtains at the back yard
where he lies on his back and reaches arms
with aching desire to embrace soft clouds.
Abruptly stopping the song at the words
"and he walks with me, and he talks with me,"
she curls hands in her lap, pressing lace dress
against her thighs with aching agony.
Gazing at painting of Jesus that hangs
beside photo of her adopting parents,
she imagines him smiling with desire
as he holds her tight and kisses her mouth.
Glancing up from memories of her childhood,
the old woman stares at the photograph
that shows her sitting with him and five children
who sprang from the passion of their embrace.
He was not Jesus but I married him,
for I often lay in bed after dark
and longed for him to hold me in his arms
and fill me with the spirit of his love.
Leaving the home of the woman who raised me,
I held hands with her nephew as we walked
thin signless road across the windy plain
where silent hope sings over golden hills.
Stopping by the pond among rustling trees,
he caressed my gold curls and kissed my cheeks,
and talked about the home he wants to build,
so we continued to the promised land.
He built that home for me by the slow stream,
the old woman smiles and touches her cheek,
then stares at the broken porcelain cup,
cracked like her aching heart beyond repair.
© Surazeus
2018 10 16
The frail porcelain cup with yellow blooms
cracks on smooth wood floor of the living room
as the black cat skitters into the hall
tail high as the telephone pole in rain.
The old woman in the long yellow dress
stares at piano keys of shining ivory
and remembers green grass of the back yard
with soft yellow roses wet after rain.
She closes her eyes at touch of his hands
on her belly, and his breath on her neck,
and how his whispered words struck at her heart
like wood keys twanging taut piano strings.
Floating on cold river in warm sunlight,
she feels her body become the landscape
of fields and rolling hills fertile with life
as bees gather pollen from apple blooms.
Slipping from grip of his hands on her hips,
she leaps into cool shade of the white house
to sit trembling on the piano bench,
and sings, "I come the garden alone."
Cheeks flushed as she sings the hymn about Jesus,
she peeks through lace curtains at the back yard
where he lies on his back and reaches arms
with aching desire to embrace soft clouds.
Abruptly stopping the song at the words
"and he walks with me, and he talks with me,"
she curls hands in her lap, pressing lace dress
against her thighs with aching agony.
Gazing at painting of Jesus that hangs
beside photo of her adopting parents,
she imagines him smiling with desire
as he holds her tight and kisses her mouth.
Glancing up from memories of her childhood,
the old woman stares at the photograph
that shows her sitting with him and five children
who sprang from the passion of their embrace.
He was not Jesus but I married him,
for I often lay in bed after dark
and longed for him to hold me in his arms
and fill me with the spirit of his love.
Leaving the home of the woman who raised me,
I held hands with her nephew as we walked
thin signless road across the windy plain
where silent hope sings over golden hills.
Stopping by the pond among rustling trees,
he caressed my gold curls and kissed my cheeks,
and talked about the home he wants to build,
so we continued to the promised land.
He built that home for me by the slow stream,
the old woman smiles and touches her cheek,
then stares at the broken porcelain cup,
cracked like her aching heart beyond repair.
No comments:
Post a Comment