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Julie Marie Wade Gala Court, Sunrise As
I first undressed her, I thought of swans. Wings the colour of candlelight. Dark feet parting the
waters. We
had never kissed, only the flicker of her hand against my back. Broken
open, beads from every string—mercury seeping its vial. Tongues
like wings. Feathered
hair and hands. A rapturous sound of ascent.
Trumpeting triumph. Naked,
I opened my parasol limbs. Naked,
her harp strings, her music. I
plunged in. No bleeding. No honey-hot stream of our blood. It
was the very early morning of our swan song. Early, I say, not easy.
And yet it was. I flowed into her like the first, warm wind of a
season. No one overtaken, and we both
succumbed. Outside
her window, singing and splashing. The sudden flare of the sun. Headlines after Robert
Creeley Early this morning Reno wakes us winds clashing cool against warm A hint of hunger in the desert your eggs over easy coffee sweetened with cream and a news-paper spread across our table Words will be bread, you said Here in the Little Big City we learn we are legal (twelve months into Love Someone in politics thought fit to bless this which he could not have known to discuss in confidence the pros and cons and tell us on the front page center their
findings, their
verdict, their
vote: By narrowest margins To kiss you no longer a crime Falls Snow,
certainly— soft
culmination
(or) deafening
anti-sound the
wish to remember: silence red
face in the clouds
(or) my
father, who cannot be
comforted Bless
him, George Bailey. Surreptitiously,
snow— your
particular blush
(or) a bottle of cheap champagne Suggest
alternatives to driving. Staying home
(or) (and) (equals) Suicide
unlikely
(or) out of the question Damn
you, George Bailey. Enter
the questions: Will there be snow there? Black
ice?
And what of the turtles— Will
they freeze on the road?
Nexus In the Catskills a woman dances to keep herself alive Niagra a neighbor willingly descends And this morning snow in Cincinnati brought a bristled hush to every spinning wheel on the road
Starlight For
Angie To say what has been said before,
though more exactly, and with a tongue
more expert in its twist, its kiss.
What has been consumed becomes
consuming, impatient as August
for the
rain.
What roses ratify,
will not explain In pain I have unfolded the Rapunzel
rope of my hair and you, the deep
sockets of your diligent palms.
A window, latticed or curtained—
we have climbed out of it. A wall,
trellised or tempered with ivy—
we have climbed over it. In joy,
the yeast of the heart endlessly rising.
In sex, windmills softening stone.
Begin again, at the
apex, a long-lashed
ingénue. The needle sticks—see this—iris, cornea, lid. Another
song— blue,
with a fleck—
begins. Born in Seattle in 1979, Julie Marie Wade completed a Master of
Arts in English at Western
Washington University and a Master
of Fine Arts in Poetry at the University
of Pittsburgh. She has received the Chicago
Literary Award in Poetry, the Gulf Coast Nonfiction Prize, the Oscar Wilde
Poetry Prize, the Literal Latte Nonfiction Award, and 6 Pushcart Prize
nominations. She is the author of 2 collections of lyric nonfiction, Wishbone:
A Memoir in Fratures (Colgate University Press,
2010) and In Lieu of Flowers (Sarabande,
2011), and a poetry chapbook, Without (Finishing Line Press,
2010). |
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