1967 von Neeli Cherkovski

Neeli Cherkovski und Maketa Groves im Caffé Trieste San Francisco
Neeli Cherkovski und Maketa Groves im Caffé Trieste San Francisco


in the Theosophical living room
we read from a book
 by Madame Helene Blavatsky,
she wore gloves,
we ate in the kitchen
from a blue bowl
and listened  to the radio,
it could be worse than love

I loved your jade eyes
and your thin, strong body, your manner
of laughing, how you spoke my poems aloud

who was he and what did he accomplish, his
apple red cheeks, his sculpted lips inviting me
in the new century, pull him from the ether, you
must translate the lost feeling the ease of your love
 back then, and the impossible well, the news is

how do the words fit into your heart?
when do we walk upstairs hand in hand
 as if we had skimmed and
gone deeper? every letter
on my tongue I handed to you
that early evening, then reached
for your long blond hair, kissed your cheeks
and began slowly to unbutton
your shirt, we heard the robins outside
in the South Pasadena
night, the crowds would be
leaving the race track and the robins
would trill until they were worn out

I brought you upstairs, the odors
of the old house
were perfect, no one
would be home
they'd gone
for several days, even the mole
who rented a room off the kitchen
had left, I felt
liberated and clear, it was '67, the war
worked its alchemical way
into the crevices of the republic

I thought
we would read poems forever, and
come to find meaning
behind every window, that
our understanding had grown deeper
than the passage of time, I saw only how
young we were, you were
a year out of high school, and I
was a student at Cal State

we visited my old poet friend in Hollywood,
he might have guessed at our love, I think
he imagined it, two decades later he whispered
"I knew. . ." but this was then
and we were thinking how love
could not end

parading into the commune
where you lived, your mother and father
twin spires of salt, gave us
a room of our own
until we floated off that hillside
across the San Fernando Valley

many nights, it did seem
like forever as the war tugged at us
and the music grew louder, I heard
the voice of Constantine Cavafy
and held your body close to mine
and lay quietly against your
smooth skin

later, when I came for you
and found the place abandoned
I panicked and drove up the coast
to where you had all
lived before, but they had
only rumors for me, I headed
further north, taking
side roads, finding
enough information
to keep me going, asking how could he
leave me? driving and thinking
of the birds
and their chords, loud and
finally silent, our hands entwined

his parents must have
done this to separate us, something
he said to them, or they just had to
move on
or the year had died
and I hadn’t noticed, alone,
driving north, never going
back, driving in a redwood grove, the
heavy shadows
falling over memory, driving
into the rain, I saw
my face in the glass of the window, the wipers
moving at a fast clip, darkness
deepening I can only
cherish the idea that you were
looking, or maybe just thinking
of me

Kommentare: 0 (Diskussion geschlossen)
    Es sind noch keine Einträge vorhanden.