H e a r t S o n s & H e a r t D a u g h t e r s of A l l e n G i n s b e r g
N a p a l m H e a l t h S p a : R e p o r t 2 0 1 4 : A r c h i v e s E d i t i o n
(A shadow wrings her hands in a room full of light)
A shadow wrings her hands in a room full of light.
She lives in the possible palms of a lover––
How they made a violin of her body in his attic flat
And how morning arrived clear with loss
Like a knife slicing kisses.
She recalls the resolute music of sheets and limbs
Entangled in what has no name––
A spell, she thinks, destroyed with words.
This October wind comes through the window
Like he does––uninterrupted, caressing––
And vanishes the same, yet leaves
Invisible traces of love on her cheeks.
He will permeate her like absence
Until she will disappear at evening––
Without reproach, unshadow, unself
And not alone, once again.
She tells him that the peonies and geraniums and roses and lilies
Grow so strongly it must be a good sign: he will get better, she says.
This is the hour when there is only time for
Delicate colors around the gray house, the locus trees in the yard
From which they take armfuls of blossoms and bring them in
And fill the rooms with white scent of blown spring.
[Originally published in NHS 2001, http://www.poetspath.com/napalm/nhs01/bugan.html.]