Elegy to Catherine
Written By: Emmanuelle Cushway
regard the picture frames, children’s names,
the cross upon the wall.
the porcelain figurines, ladies magazines,
the pictures in the hall
those upon the mantle–and your mother’s oracular drawl
her voice lingering, lacerating
as it blisters, and whines like chalk.
do not let her ask anything. do not ask anything at all.
do not speak, do not think
do not grow tall–above yourself
then run a finger along that dusty shelf
and twist that great key against your back,
to mechanically splutter out an idle proverb,
or a consolatory rhyme
about the goodness of faith, or the cruelty of time
no, instead, if you please
regard those shoes on the untouched shelf
the shelf that sits above you and i
just below orion’s belt–the equatorial line,
that rift that stretches out against the sky
where the ribbon is neatly cross-stitched and sewn,
by fingertips gentler than the first kiss of the moon
than the overcast shadows that mutter tepid tales of fate
than the fragments that outstretch to whisper,
‘please come home,
sometime soon, not too late.’
regard those pencil markings
that breathe against the mottling wood
of the door frame that screams when it’s opened
that once praised how tall she had stood.
the pale blue milk of moonlight, pools
and stirs her sleepless eyes
she reads of fairy tales, of fools
of mournful bards and their cries
she reads of violet-weavers,
of kingdoms and their deceivers
of magic caught in the light of frost, and the ache of non-believing
though she’s almost half conceiving, that what she had once thought was fleeting,
is now simply interwoven within the fabric of her dreaming.
she reads of madness–and boa constrictors, eating
and how adults don’t seem to understand
the truth and depth of her meaning.
the sweet echo of a church bell, ringing
the golden hymnal of voices, singing
that you, catherine, are as old as the sun,
and have been here for years
oh, what tall children we watch ourselves become.
time peers at us–he prowls overhead
and with a twitching eye,
he habitually stirs at the foot of my bed
oh, what tall children we watch ourselves become.
to catherine–i see you cast in bronze
in that dim museum room
your waxen skirt hoarsely whispers
illuminé par la lumière de la lune.
