Darkness on the Surface of the Deep by Valerie Alon
Tonight, the moon is divided—half loss, half hope
An hourglass or a clear luminosity diving through light-flecked clouds
Low and golden, the way long-ago fish broke into the air
the sky is restless tonight, like a sea mourning waves tossed carelessly
on an abandoned shore of tumbled shells and scuttled ships
Behind me, the hills are somber milestones
my car is a ghost rushing past gas pumps, cantinas and fast-food grottos
past gluttonous palaces and stoic churches, past neon signs that barter lust
the world is intoxicated, mad with its own reflection,
As slot machines echo divinity and release a cascade of tiny moons
pressed with the faces of forgotten heroes
The world is senile, filled to the gullet with sentiment and butchered flesh
and the promise of more trinkets—Love has become anonymous
an apocalyptic lullaby, a keepsake from a mythical land
the radio sings and hisses and cajoles and like an interpreter of Pythian verse
I’m listening for my redemption, listening hard, the way a leper clings to hope
Even children are sinister now
their delicate lips and reflective eyes wizened, measuring the cost of things
the land suckles seducers who unwind desire like silver thread through a forest
leading the unwary to a mystery—where aerialist’s caper
their tiny umbrellas incapable of breaking any fall
and rodeo clowns eerily mock death
A thousand voices drone like bees in lazy sunlight
so many wings and claws and sensual, black eyes
time cuts away the useless flesh to play a harmony of bones
nothing exists except us— the room is empty
Cards crack beneath old fingers, changes are stirring there, like clouds threatening rain
let it sting, let it be cold and awakening, let it bind us
Tonight, the centuries whisper our names, syllables twined the way serpents mate
we are a hollow wind, a page torn from a book, an empty promise of immortality
God blossoms in your eyes—there in a garden of fear and remorse
and terrible beauty where the secrets of love and death are kept
your heart is burning into cinders— and in that heat we are born
© amy eyrie 2013
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