Alphabet City

I am notably missing from the photo,
this portrait of me is instead now a landscape,
the foreground that should have been
a background had I actually arrived
on the scene. I wonder whose index finger
pressed down the shutter. Of all the proofs,
I like this one best, it instills a sense
of the imminent, careful lighting, edgy compose,
something’s about to happen, to jump at you from the frame,
you feel it.

Instead I order
a life-size print
of me in white hat
buried up to my forehead
blinded by the bank
of new-fallen snow.

© Chagall 2014

Small letters alight on her lashes, tiny poetry about her eyes
Kisses of ancient rhythm, a pucker for a flame stoked
Each blink the turn of a page reveals whole worlds
Every breath has meaning, those lighter than air defy gravity
Limericks line her brow when she laughs
When she sighs I trace my lips along the long volta of her neckline
Where her sonnets turn around
Down her arms flow three-letter words, we are kids again
Awash in primary colors, hands waving wildly at tickles
Dancing about in a spray, we drink water from a hose
There are symbols dangling from her ears that I do not recognize
Baubles of mystery; I linger there eschewing translation.

© Chagall 2016

Running away, we outrace the comets,
then rest on our backs, at the southern pole;
stars, concentric orbits, clarions toll:
Life on this planet, as good as it gets.

My love for you hangs in mist, crystalline,
cascades in tickling ripples down your face,
rinses from inside out, the dust, this place.
There is no heaven, nor hell, this serene.

There is no place at all, there’s no bridge back.
I reel, mad dance, awestruck, struck dead, anew,
the last call. We didn’t make it did we?
“No my love, we both died in the attack.”

Cold wild winds blow hard in vain to renew
the calm before the storm, eternally.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013