A Moment

 

 

Come pray homage to my cranberry fields

Berry boy you are sun wonder of grieving

Willows—weeping you see we were weeping

Smothered brown by the constant reminiscence

Of ready-to-use skin.  Come in, weaving remnants

 

Of that Somerset romance, pillages abnegating

A serenity of pebble locale—brightly gauzed

Beach umbrellas string guitar quartets, juicing it

Up for the makeshift tourist crew.  We had worked

 

Together for a while, during a night at the box inn,

Drinking spiked lemonades and speaking of presidential

Elections, Gaza and all its uncertainty in the hands of

Israelis, how religion supercedes democratic correctness—

 

We had a moment, carving hedging parting into boxcar street

lamps

Teeming with possible lovers and dwellers of that large cave

city we

Disarm instantly with song expressed in jazz octaves,

illuminated grit roads,

Both feeling good, soothing an ache by indulging in blues

rhythms waltzing

From a stark fish n’ chip diner, or a Waits concoction booming

from the

Throat of a midnight street-renter, chipping his tooth on tips

and back-pedaling

To take in an uncapped Arbor Mist stuck between his blanketed

breasts.

 

A cosmopolitan article claims after four months its time

To release futile memories, bane drifting meek and staling,

Almost fully remnant in the blood of our antecedent juvenilia.

Least of all me unable to believe this beleaguered city—

 

The strength to fall back down.  To squelch a moment

In its urn, churn out ubiquitous ever-captured mini capsules

Of what young chances are.  The urn glazed with serendipitous

Orange paste, glimmering in the twilight of promised sorrow

And soon following a tide turning in—we had gone and done

with it all.

 

But once the capricious nature of losing foreground is excused,

it may

Be seen: we established a repertoire of propitious dwelling, in

a second

Of occasional speech and intertwinement of fellow faith.  Some

Make promise of carriage, others devastate their own good

intentions,

But if it is one evening, then that night is permanently bright,

disrupting

 

Monotonous being with ever-welcome scent of compassion—

that said

Don’t do anything, but allow your picture to intrigue me, with

your posture,

punitive damages allotted before a Brooklyn tar sun arises to a

morning murky with alone time,

Yet prayer intent to those sheltered spirits of such merged,

wanton moment—

 

Caressing satin fingers against a backbeat piano bar’s warm

liquids, our

Eyes living to dwell and rekindle and continue to prosper within

the contour

Of a certain fragrant tune or artwork, piecing the delicate

nature of an arcane “had.”

 

Julia Istomina