by Hol­ly Appling

I am in love with a magi­cian —

He comes home near mid­night

& relax­es, undoes his slant­ed

Tuxe­do shirt but­tons, his body
Is always here & gone, the
Voice hangs in cor­ners like bats —

Have I been gone long? He asks.
I nev­er answer, only look back
& smile. Then he begins his act —

His white gloved hands each

Seem to hold a thing very close —

An alley fire gives enough light,

The home­less crowd in to look —

He says, this hand or that?
Quick dar­ling, which do you pick?

That or this or that, you prick —
It’s a showy trick, only hyp­no­sis
To get me to sleep, I sigh.

I am too elec­tric & sick to sleep.

I grip the dream’s razor edge —
I am an egg with a wing-tip stick­ing out.

If I crack, this is what hap­pens —

The moon­light under­stands,

Its beams illu­mi­nate the good

& ter­ri­ble moments like the time

I danced the tan­go with a tulip —
Its calyx bit my shift­ing sta­mens,


Moon­beams fell every­where
Through xylem & water, pale
Leaves turned translu­cent —

I asked for a kiss among halos.

The ver­ti­go shocked my body,

My legs, my hips & neck, my lips —

The tan­go spun like a carousel

At top speed. The nau­sea awful —

Though I did not lie back, I ran,

I con­quered, my sword swung

Light as a feath­er, against each
Dag­ger, I bat­tled, I bat­tled —

I trust­ed no one, not even

The black & white swan pawns
Float­ing in the cas­tle moat.

The end is love-sick & filthy,
I must warn you, it hap­pened
When I found my steel

Stilet­to boot heel thrust
Into anoth­er sol­dier’s shoul­der
Half-stuck in the muck &

My sud­den switch-blade was

Angled at his pul­sat­ing jugu­lar —

I bare­ly heard his words,

I shout­ed, speak up! Speak, kid —
Just to ease the ten­sion a bit,
A cherub pops into thought’s

Anniver­sary cake, want­i­ng

To be any­where else but here —

Just like me…

So no more shad­ows or tricks —
I will live as I want to be loved.
I will leave for the lands

I have always want­ed to trav­el —
In a glit­ter a car­a­van pass­es.
I sprint & catch a gyp­sy’s hand.

The wag­on lurch­es ahead again,

A jade ele­phant at its lead —

His mus­cles rip­ple in thun­der.

I am awe-struck, I am sure my fin­ger­tip
Can touch his pure white tusk —
The jun­gle riv­er pro­pels its myth

Fur­ther & fur­ther as we jour­ney

To the hori­zon, the last ring in green

Across a gal­lop­ing into dreams —

---

Hol­ly R. Appling lives in Cana­da.  Her poems have appeared in QWERTY, Carousel, The Writer’s Spot, Leaf Press and an obscure south Indi­an pub­li­ca­tion.

Filed under: Jabberwocky 6