The situation grows worse though
nothing has changed; she turns
to face the windswept space below
confident it will hold her. In
pointe slippers she tiptoes nearer
the edge and simply falls forward.
The ground recedes, gets smaller
with each new inch of elevation.
She turns midair and allows herself
a moment to revel in ascension. She
has never before dreamed but now seems
the right time.
© Chagall 2016
Christmas Morning on the Lower East Side when I was five
I awoke to find a tiny white baby grand piano alongside
the tree that crowded the front room of our railroad apartment.
Not quite a toy, it was a real instrument crafted to stand
not two feet high. On the beautiful bench sat a card in script
that simply said Love Dad.
This year, for what would be his 100th Christmas, I will place
my hands on the keyboard again to wish him peace in silent night.
© Chagall 2016
She never was able to conceive
how two halves can make a whole.
© Chagall 2016
Near a century ago, cousins
from the old country had written
to her, my grandmother, to tell her of
new life, love, old life, and death,
she’d missed, the chronology of
the beautifully handwritten cursive
on paper unlike any I’ve ever seen
in size and touch, with a scent of
many years contained there in the folds and
the unfolding of many reads, here and there
a letter blurred, the errant pen of
the author or a teardrop.
© Chagall 2016
Dear Sara – I was deeply saddened today to realize it will take less time to attain your parents’ age than has transpired since we first met. Desperately breathing irregularly. Love, Carlos
© Chagall 2016
To love her is so precisely
weightless.
© Chagall 2016
Sandwiched between her and the braver me,
I cautiously wander a bit farther away from the fray today
to a place where few boundaries abut.
© Chagall 2016
And Julia says hi –
a summer of sun soaked
peppermint RayBan razzmatazz
– tell her hello for me too.
© Chagall 2016
Yes – perfect – place her there,
far from the maddening roar of
the love these two share.
© Chagall 2016
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
Alphabet City 