bedside-bowl

To the Psalmist

I want to slowly shell your sadness
as if paring the garnet-stained rind
of an afghan pomegranate. I study
the accentuated aril, that husk-lilt
of what is wilted; cradle-sacred
in the artesian well of a peeled

portmanteau  - whetted hands, halcyon eyes

For you, I am
an angle-kneed farmer of Mandalay rubies


I want to garden your grief. 
put my mouth to the cut lip
of that hemorrhaging earth where
you christen yourself after another flood –
a quicksilver fettle; a storm raking coals
Here I train my tresses into a trapeze
to halter your body when it evades its ebb
& flickers into a scintillated waterfall
I collect your crescent frame
its molten litany; its lachrymal oath
                                             pearl by pearl
                                            stone by stone


   I bring you back from that descent
   wrapped in a song of soot; the ebony soil
   of a skin still alluvial with sorrowed intent
I have a tattered bedside, a bowl of hot water
        & a pulse that feels crushed into pollen.
  Soon I will see you grow from man to music
    I orchestrate the narrow hum in my fingers
    across the ornate-wired harp of your shoulders
                         I invent another elegant geometry
                    to trace the paisley of your cicatrices


I place my face in the trestle of your neck
a blind dove eclipsed behind the attic’s window
The night is drawn thick- an indigo sailcloth
                 I watch the rain shatter
                 into mirrors upon the cobblestone
Do your dreams still dance as shadow puppets?
To murmur a footstep into the corridor of  
the oyster poise shaping your somnolent 
ears, I borrow the light of orange sulphur
as it cascades into the belly of a buttercup
        Each wing a wave
        a smallness that invents
        a sea from an empty space

             I tell you I love

You; a quiet God erupts
from the contours
of the scarred tissue
of your sleep

Scherezade Siobhan©