by Suellen Luwish


Anna, where did the tabbies go?

They're listening to jasmine
and passing the thyme...

Rosemary, tell me what you remember.

Forbidden Cabala,
my hands--the grime...

Susannah, the glow round your door, what was it?

Rotting wood, mold,
phosphorescence and lime...

How will we live with posies scattered,

maidenheads broken
as plague tides rise?

How will we laugh when our children are burning

malaise in bonfires
that brighten their eyes?

Josephine, tell me, where is your husband?

Which one? Does it matter?
He dies, then he dies.

Ivy, what does your name mean?

It means, "I die where I cling."

© 2001 Suellen Luwish


She arrived from silence,
homeless, perhaps abandoned,
meowing for a meal, a word,
a hand. She had yearning eyes,
as if she'd been loved, or unloved.
She was all colors combined,
like an absence of shadows,
and so I called her Moonbeam.
Her eyes remembered somewhere
else, and made me imagine
green awnings. And now she's
gone, feline and sudden,
among evening's dark draperies.
Found once and lingering,
longing for old porches and cracked
promises, she slips away while
no one is looking. Missing,
she leaves me a puzzle unsolved
by dawn, calling Moonbeam where
windows open on happy endings.

© 2000 Suellen Luwish


Courtesy by Suellen Luwish
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