Tag Archives: being left behind

The Bright Unicorn

The young woman softly treads over damp, soft earth.
The holy stars shine through the branches of the trees.
In a thin coat for a local college, her favorite soccer team.
Burgundy and dark wine red, logo of a people lost, memory.
Her old sneakers let in the water, as if earth was washing her feet.
Her jeans to thin against the dark and the cool, the sighing morning.
She hugs herself tight, thinks of her friend Engalina, on that team.
She is graduating in the spring, and she’ll be on her way, as she is whole.
By a wide and silver river the young woman sits, to see the bright unicorn.
Is it the whisper of madness, or the need of something pure, or is it really real?
Beneath the holy stars, in the cold late winter air, the unicorn bright, gently white,
comes out of the forest, and looks her in the eye, whinnies, drinks from the river.
Once, when she as a girl, playing her own little game at recess, by the chain link fence,
she looked into the forest, on that glorious April day, when the world warmed up again,
and she saw the bright unicorn there, like in the stories she read, the dreams in her head.
She smiled at the unicorn, and it lowered it’s head to her, as if she were a queen of nature.
The bright unicorn drinks it’s water, and the drug of the light soothes the young woman.
The radiation of fear and curdled hate slip away, and she has a feel of that lost magic,
of the innocence and infatuation she wasted on black death and trying to burn the world.
The bright unicorn loves her, and they’re connected by the holy stars, and what she could still be.
The young woman sits by the river and the bright unicorn bows it’s head, turns into the forest.
Silent tears roll down her cheeks, and the holy stars seems as if they will come into her heart.
Engalina will be gone by June, and again a friend will say goodbye, and another star withheld.
One day, the young woman hopes, she will be something more, a holy star herself, finally healed.

The Long Day’s Sun

The sun is fading away, though it’s still so humid here,

by the sea, that I feel I need gills to breathe, still so

sweltering, like being wrapped in a tight, wet, steamed blanket.

Ricardo and Mary and walking up, hand in hand, dripping wet,

finally leaving the water as it gets dark, almost if their were

merpeople long ago, in their first and better life.

Last hurrah before school, for me anyway, scrawny and awkward,

unsure of the future, high school, new school, everything shifting,

riding the bus and moving closer to the inevitable, to growing up.

Ricardo pulls Mary into his arms, squeezes her tight and kisses her,

and I look away, nauseous, uneasy watching them like this, wondering

what the big appeal of it all is.

We’re in Mary’s ancient and haphazard calico Ford Probe, driving in

the night, the city shining bright and a hazy golden glow by the highway,

some band I’ve never heard of that Mary loves playing. It is sad. Soothing.

Ricardo holds her right hand on the console while she steers with the left,

and they are talking and laughing, and even in the dark the headlights catch

a glint of the tiny and proud diamond on her engagement ring.

They are through with school. My angels. My protectors. My de-facto siblings.

Older and wiser, already been through the wars to show me the way, are leaving

for Seattle, for a life together, for a better jobs far away.

Mary and Ricardo have always been in love. They have always been there.

Mary used to hold me close to her breast, stroke my hair, sing me lullabies,

and Ricardo always had time to listen to my stories, kick a soccer ball, play with me.

High school is coming. They’re leaving. I feel alone, afraid of what I have to face.

The song changes, and the woman singing, mournful and quiet, sends shivers down

my spine and my arms, even as they radiate with the heat of the long day’s sun.

Mary raises up Ricardo’s hand, and kisses it, and he leans over and kisses her cheek.

Mary pulls into a fast food joint, and Ricardo runs in, coming out with a strawberry sundae.

He gives it to, ruffles my hair, gives me a smile, and then were on again into the night.

I eat my sundae, knowing like these good times, it will be gone too soon.

Fruit Of The Vine

Omaha may as well be on the dark side of the moon,

the far side of the galaxy.

Birthday outings shared, spring tender and bright,

I could believe I’d grow to touch the sun.

Riding on my beat-up Yamaha, you holding tight,

feeling your heart race against my back.

Up to Cades Cove that one Saturday.

I held your hand as you walked across the stones

of the little creek.

Sharing a little lunch you packed for us

of bologna and American cheese,

juice boxes, like we were kids again.

The fruit of the vine.

6 years. I got to have you in my life. 6 years.

Of excited chats and adventures and feeling

I finally belonged, was whole, and real.

If ever I truly loved a woman, it was you.

Fruit of the vine. Red wine and fancy dinner.

We drink together. You led me to The Lord.

And I’ll not drink this again until we drink it again

in our Father’s Kingdom.

It’s winter, and there’s slushy rain, bitter cold

and you’ll be gone from my life forever.

I drive on my Yamaha, back to Maryville,

feeling the ghost of your heart racing against my back.