Wakerant
—after W.B. Yeats’ The Stolen Child
I thought we invented glass, but it splashes beneath my feet
as I shatter streetlights shining where stars should sleep.
My buckskin boots are boxed in by bricks that spit
out the rain; bricks that forget my footfalls unlike
where the reverent tallgrass
would bow under stride,
and herons herald trespass
as reddest squirrels scamper tree side—
hoping for a better view.
The rushes drink dew
as the drops stir dragonflies
to dance to alluring faerie cries.
Come away, from slumbering Pike
Street! I can’t see the ferns beyond the fences, no more
than lights in puddles catching tears.
I rush towards the river, full of fae understanding—
to take the ferry, hand in hand.
Hunger
I spy you on the edge,
in our sanctum, holding your wand
as my chef knife shimmers.
I need to use the spell of you
biting your lip to light my wood-stove.
You look hungry with one hand
braced on the kitchen island
mouthing some indecent incantation.
I take the apple, peeling off layer
after layer— savoring the skin.
My cupboard bursts with the spice I’ve
captured running my cinnamon fingers
through a wisp of your black magic hair.
Captured like your tumbling twin star
anises that burn my bewitching hands.
I slice the zucchini into half-moons, juices dripping
like the rain that trickled slowly down and swelled
deep inside its taproots, in strokes sliding
to the rhythm of my racing heart— sparked
by your hungry eyes that flash in my knife’s glamour.
My heart beats because I know you
never hunger
except for me.
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