Santa Fe Poetry Broadside
Issue #8, April, 1999 : -- -1 -2 -3 -4  5 -6 -7 -8 -9 -10 -11 -12
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Kathleen Newroe

                 

Husband of Night

I called you to my dream with a dance
That reached miles, so quickly, the heat
Touching your cheek must have seemed a spark
Jumping from your fire into the winter window
            scene
You have made of your household. You touched your
            cheek
Without a thought and your family saw you
            stroke your beard
As you often do, all of you at home,
            in your story.
We left you there, even as you traveled
From my fingers up my arm to my shoulder
Where my head came to lie in your lap of
            my dream.
I told you, finally, my simple request,
And you said you always knew and
            gathered me in your arms
Stroking my hair and kissing the wounded
            part of my brain.
But when I fell asleep there was nothing
Until dawn when the river ducks blared
And flew under the bridge. Then I dreamed again
Of a man ravaging a woman until she was
            a liqueur
In a brightly-lit beaker and of a violent
            horse
Barring my path and a climb up a frozen
            balustrade to a bridge of cement
Where two acquaintances chatted above me,
Now and then nonchalantly offering a hand,
And nowhere were you to be seen.


Copyright © 1999 Kathleen Newroe.

About the poet.

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Issue #8, April, 1999 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.