Literary Excercise #24: Winter, 1997

Well I suppose I should have put this piece up a while ago, but the thought hadn't crossed my mind until now. So enjoy your piece of providence on 2/11/2011 ha. Please no copying to other sites--this bad baby is my intellectual copyright.

Winter, 1997:

Laying at your bed's cleft,
listening to your tales, I remember,
they were wondrous, every one,
with fairies golden-eyed, boyish and youthful,
and the meadow nymphs, delicate, graceful,
with the scent of violet streaming past their curls.

And your father, listening through the lintel,
chuckled, for tonight
you too held a flower that he had plucked,
and set gently on your pillow.

You twirled it slowly for dramatic effect,
and I wondered what visions I could have
if I gazed with the fire of twin suns,
or if it would be too holy and I unfaithful,
but you, seeing that I was worried,
brushed my face, bringing me back to the meadow.

“All endings are happy, even better in the summer!
Just think! Mud pies! Adventures!”
And then you were off again and I grinning,
“That time of year they're special,” you stated knowingly,
“With real balm from Gilead, daddy tells me,”
and you dabbed my nose and rubbed my palms together,
indicating the spots that would cure any passing trouble:
“What fun! And what warm weather!”

But from where I sat,
there was also the frost pressing
down against your window,
and beyond that the hard-packed snow,
where I would cross the tracks at nine, every night,
(though there was no expected time for me to leave)
and tuck myself in –
for a fitful sleep, my blankets a week
too long without wash
and too soon with wear,
and the stale air and the staring shadows –
of a wearied habit.

Yet mud flakes are fun to pick at
and stack (two by two's the going rate,
except when the wind bargains one for one),
but deep down, I had my theories
and doubts: that either you or I
would ever figure out the terms
that we would come to
live or die for, rout or ruin,
but then again, there was the winter,
and our 'good' behavior.

“It's the eve of Christmas,” you gushed,
and as your toes touched mine they teased awake
the long-forgotten animus of my soul,
but when you drew them back
I searched my depths and only matter, matter.

“Isn't it incredible? Imagine! Three weeks
of no school!” And there were three,
long, arduous, like the magi's path to the planet
that emanated light, yes, and words.

You sang your first Noels
and fell in the snow,
with the perfect posture of an irresponsible angel,
and I thickened the walls of my fortress
and planned my escape routes,
with a store of weapons but no room
for holiday lore.

When it was over and I no longer
could spend my afternoons in innocence
or with you, we left for school
and you embraced my tiny frame,
but the magic had grown frigid
with the year's passing
and I stiffened,
at your touch,
and such unsubstantiated adoration.

You do not question, how can you know?
You must have forgotten, hadn't you,
the lessons of the season:
you with your makeup kit
and I with my set of weights,
Aphrodite and Achilles ™,
but without the power to lure or change our fates.
Do you not wonder what it means to be
capable and culpable?

I listened to your tales,
and I remember:
a thousand Edens now buried
beneath the graveyards of our Babels,
and over the ruins,
blossoms bursting in the midday sun:
But where is your loving father?
And the logos of Bethlehem?