mary douglas


aloft in a tea rose balloon or of teal striped silk
I am the friend of clouds, aren't you?
of winds and I want to shower down

instead of memorizing imports and exports-
little sweets with caraway seeds
on every country on the pink and green maps

the lavender too we watched unscrolled in school:
a little listless or were we dreaming- even then,
these endless valentines, violet squalls from the Indies...

ones edged in lace, of intricate design.
with clasped hands. with lilies.
with little doors opening onto doors

forget me not!

and inside, it's silver
or it's ruby.
it's ruby like a heart unopened

even on Christmas.
it's ruby like the soul of her so
turned away and twisted in the cords of

others' flights, never her own;
who must make do with the rainbow shreds so ragbag
on the storybook floor that

drifted far, down a fairy tale snow
from a peerless, prismed gown
that's not for her

while in her head, still
carrying the remainder-

content on a moonless night and leaving home
with not even the pink glow glimpsed by astronauts;
just chandeliers of the ultraviolet,

one hummingbird, surreptitious sip
of the wavering dewdrop on the
shadow-trellised rose.

oh from our hands, the pink and the blue
paper doves we'll scatter
in envelopes of unmarred marigold of the sun never

finished entirely
with shining, here on earth
for the heart, with its fervent wishing
it were otherwise

mary angela douglas 29 july 2014

Submitted: Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Topic of this poem: Poetry


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