Giselle den Breems

Away from the fields where we sat that evening,
turned morning in a word or two, the moon like a
barnacle latched to the sky and
prone to slashing our naked soles upon
its edges crumpled sternly, unlike lace.

Disquietly, between the yellow stanchions
on the bus, my music echoes: not here, not here.
I hope to see you soon.
Far from here: ghosts in a haunted stairwell with
white-painted walls, peeling in some forgotten boarding house
where who knows what happened;
a crack in the ceiling for the sunlight;
jeopardy is in your eyes;
the keening of seagulls for murdered daughters
lances of the chimney-walls.

Nobody is here, besides us and them.
One more minute passes in your pupils.

Quietly, between those white timber walls, the wind
echoes like the feet of a frightened fawn: not here, not here.

It is dusk and somewhere you are doing whatever
it is you do at dusk, something elegant and husky.

This timeless unrequited company;
I stand empty-handed, refusing to open my mouth.
I’ll let you wonder. You are holding a pear
and I don’t like pears, but I am very hungry.

And then I’m crying, alone in a hope-less stairwell.
A sound like the moon being sharpened
replaces the fawn feet and perhaps the walls will cave in.

Young blood pounds in our chests as we stand on the balcony
with screaming wind in our hair, watching the approaching night;
zygotes ready to be discovered and aborted.
Our eyes are dark. The bus stops.
I am so very far from home.