Lisa Dworkin Kerr
Can you go back?
Will you shut the door and forget that
once you pulled off the warm woolen
sweater of friendship,
spun off the wooden porch,
and leapt into the arms of the cobalt night?
Can you stuff the vivid canvas of
your dream back in its case
once you´ve witnessed the moonlight
splitting the syrup of darkness,
and sensed the gulls, nesting for the night,
like feathered diamonds inset in the granite rocks?
Can you place the stopper back
in the musty bottle of ancient perfume
once you´ve smelled the mystery of the dark beach,
shimmering with life,
and felt your pores open to the salty lick
of the ocean´s tongue?
Can the curtain descend on your heart´s tarantella
once you´ve witnessed the sandy vigil of jellyfish,
waiting for the next wave,
masses opening like flowers,
tangled streamers released--
a comb through Medusa´s hair?
There are curtains in the window,
a pot of coffee on the stove, emails from friends--
But once you settle in, will you forget the magic of flight,
the twirl of spring,
the portal of your song
opening to the night?
Wouldn´t it be easier to forget?
Can you hold on?