Sunday, November 16, 2014

Diane Dehler


There is an
intuitive link in
my mind where
you once were.  I
still feel your  pulse,
soft and steady as
a heartbeat.  Since
you disappeared, I
am condemned to
live a nightmare that
sleeps with one eye

I can no longer slumber
for I was left to hold up a
dying sky, the night set
with fractured stars. You
haven’t escaped either
for you became a new
branch on a Cecille
Brunner bush covered
with tiny rose buds
that will not open.  No
matter how much the
sun pleads.

My nightmare
conjures you. I bring
you back using spare
parts of corpses and
artificial organs.  Little
Frankenstein in ruby
lipstick. God that I were
sleep.  That to me came
the night hour in stillness
with the scent and
black perfection of

I am an Angel of the
Styx with no dreams,
no cool slice of moon
for consolation.  The moon
drops its silver veil of light
and I rub your features off. 
–Suddenly no face, no
memory.  One life dies and
you enter another in the
same liturgy.  Both a
requiem and christening
in one moment.

Wherever you are,
whatever exquisite face is
drawn upon you belongs
to me also.  Ghost & I
must sleep before this night
is over.  This dark sonata
will lull us into a white linen
purgatory.  -Your child
between us.  -Childhood’s
cheek against mine.  Dawn
without sleep arrives
waiting- still haunted.



As a child the changeling was
Somber and grave although her
Face would sometimes alight
Changing from sorrow to joy in
A moment of mystery.  As she
Grew the changeling settled
Into an enduring sadness.  No
Longer did her star quick eyes
Flash into sudden brilliance.

Changeling, murmured a dark
Brown wren.  Changeling, sounded
Out the knocking motion in her
Legs.  Changeling, breathed the
Darkening wind.  Changeling, said
The sun cracking its thick thumbs
Against her tightly latched window
Shutters.  The changeling shuddered
Hating intrusion beyond all else.

Changeling or not she said aloud,
I must be about my work.  Pulling
On a long dark cape she drew up
The hood.  Stepping out into
October dusk she disappeared
Forever.  - To search for a fallen
star or a raven with a hurt wing.
Or whatever else the unchanging
Sadness of the heart finds.


Umbilical Cord

A sixth finger
tied off with a
butcher string
pushed swollen &
bruised against
a taut cord.

It was a human
with a wishbone
caught tightly in
its throat.  And
gradually the pain
eased as it shriveled.

At intervals it
would resist anew
pulling against the
line that bound it.
It became brittle like
a dried up starfish.

Like a withered
umbilical cord it
no longer protested.
It was a baby shark
a fisherman had
just killed.

© Diane Dehler


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