The Lover’s Pond

Desert oasis—

Echoing traces of a sound

into memory.

~

I had silent dreams.

Scraping together the dregs

of a tinted warmth—

That depthless garden:

star riddled, grass blades adrift

hanging glass fingers.

We were cold. Lonely

things, islands carved from silence,

eyes that could ignite

yet burned at their touch:

I will tell you my secrets.

My daughter, my sun,

you ask, quietly—

under the breath of a moon.

Who was my father?

Stories of water,

in my dream, he’s at the edge

of the lover’s pond.

He was not handsome.

Pointed and callow, his face

of a soft, rose skin.

Stories of desert,

it is said that the heart of

every sand maiden

burns to sate the drought

and in everything she does

thirst surely follows.

It’s a lonely life.

Of a heat never escaped,

exiles we are made,

fates scarcely changed, feel

my heart, beating with the waves

of my oasis:

I stood at the edge

with silent dreams, gathered close,

I imagined love—

fantasies of joy,

I thought I could live that way.

Silent, and alone.

He was not handsome,

or strong, brilliant or brave,

he was brilliance.

I felt it in his

eyes. Nightshade, squeezed in his hand—

its fingers went white.

Aaqlet, listen true:

no stars in the sky’s mirror

ever filled my heart.

Who was your father?

If true love exists, it’s in

the truth between us.

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