Prologue

PROLOGUE

Gloaming is gradually pushing night away.

Casting a magician’s spell, day sweeps

His arm in a wide arc, left to right.

The sky submits to his behest.

Darkness retreats faster than low tide pulling back its forces,

Fading until morning is a garment washed many times.

Dawn is a gray wolf’s coat streaked with white clouds.

Blue and pink light diffuse, a river entering a delta.

Moon and stars now gleam faintly, soft as kindness.

Daylight is spilling, gentle waterfall, over the window sill.

The house begins to stir, a living animal.

I hear tinkling utensils, clattering plates, sloshing glasses.

Coffee is percolating, a gurgling snorkel.

Birds let loose warbles, sinuous wrist movements of a dancer.

Clearing throats repeatedly, roosters do not understand

Only once is necessary to remind everyone day is here.

Din rises, tittering audience before a performance.

Turning squeakily, a faucet drills water into a pail.

Commuters gun their engines. Motorcycles roar, punching holes in paper.

Chaos breaks out, a bull bounding free from a maze.

Originally published in Pine+Basil, Volume 1, Issue 1, page 20

Morning Light by Pam Holnback

Epilogue

EPILOGUE

Night begins in disquiet, pacing back and forth,

Disturbed by spoons crossing swords with forks

Banging on plates as against shields,

Clinking glasses like missiles pinging helmets.

Rumbling low, a water stream is drumming

An aluminum sink, bottom of a boat.

Beyond the wall, cars whoosh by like subway trains.

Passersby in threes or fours are chortling birds.

Two houses down, a woman hollers faintly at a bawling child.

Cats scrambling after prey kick boxes bumping together as they fall.

A small animal is making tiny scraping noises inside the ceiling.

The wind rises, shakes leaves, dislodging one fruit,

Thudding on the roof, bouncing twice,

Rolling audibly…one, two more follow.

The house folds his hands, sitting silently for a while.

Everything is slowing down, floating brushwood.

The clock is ticking but not on the wall. Time machine

Oscillating to a gradually disappearing frequency,

I listen for the pop of ratchet and spring pulling the hammer backward

To strike the bell once, twice, then push off, sleep pulling at the oars.

Originally published in aaduna, Volume V, Issue 1 (Spring 2015)

La Nuit (1902) by Aristide Maillol

Sparkling river of silence…

Sparkling river of silence…

Sparkling river of silence,

Traveler along a shadowy forest floor—

I drink deep draughts, lasting,

Of your overflowing stillness!

Tipping your goblet,

I taste your brightness

As floral wine

Swirling inside a crystal

And breathe in perfume.

Fingers of a spellbound existence

Stop my ears.

Awe, a thief, steals my voice.

Bereft of noise, I am

Transfixed as the moon

Hovering, windless night,

Balanced on the sword tip of time.

The world is motionless

As my spirit moves

And my stumbling heart is filled

By a presence…and quiet…

A quiet presence.

Sparkling river of silence...

The Color of Death

THE COLOR OF DEATH

What is the color of death?

In the West many say black,

Some in the East say white.

Devout Muslims enshroud the dead

In white cotton or linen,

Depositing bodies in graves,

Heads pointed toward Mecca.

Protective white paper encloses

Household shrines in Japan,

Sealing against malignant spirits.

Blue is the sadness of death,

Color of mourning in Korea.

Thai widows mourn in purple,

Same color chosen by Roman Catholics

During Lent to drape in reverence the cross,

Instrument and symbol of the universal death

Of the Son of God.

Those whose livelihood is the dead—

Morticians, coroners, embalmers—might say

Death is gray, cadaver pallor.

Hacking, slicing, packing

Dead animals,

Slaughterhouse workers might say

Death is red, fresh meat.

Buddhists who cremate the dead might say

Death is yellow and orange, purifying flames.

Distant heirs of the ancient Egyptians, or of

South Americans of old—Mayans, Aztecs, Incans—might say

Death is gold, everlasting raiment of the sun.

I say death is multicolored—

Sundry motley opening leaves of a fan,

Forward tumbling acrobats in rainbow costumes,

Multihued children’s picture books,

Mobile animal figure whirligigs,

Variegated wallpaper prints,

Van Gogh sunflowers,

Brazilian toucans,

Australian parakeets,

Octopuses, neon-like, bursting with emotion,

Pendant festival lanterns,

Brass bands marching holiday parades,

Fighting kites flashing ribbon tails,

Tibetan prayer flags streaming.

Originally published in Progenitor Art and Literary Journal (2015), pages 13-14

Tibetan prayer flags

All Souls’

ALL SOULS’

The day of the dead is short respite for the living.

The tumult of life is stilled by the remembrance of the dead.

The living remembers the dead as the silence of the grass.

The grass is the dead ever present among the living.

The dead have not forgotten that life is breath and water.

They hover in the air, waiting for rain.

Water is the prayers of the living for the thirsty.

The living sometimes forgets, the dead ever remember.

Originally published in Anak Sastra (October 26, 2014), page 83

Mexican Day of the Dead skulls