ONCE UPON A… Poem by Elma van Haren

Words bubbling up; froth,
glistening bubble-blowing.
The air full of grey moisture,
a misty sky above blue fields with
a glowing core of careful light
trying to break through.
Then holes appear in the sky, cold-glazed,
every gleam around you burning white.
Soap bubbles, condensing into something that tries to rise;
a razor-sharp thought,
without heart or tongue or hands.

Blowing in through the open window at night
brushing your face like an Arctic chill
carrying the smell of smoke.
Stinging.
An ice-cold smell of burning.
Somewhere a fire must be raging, somewhere
a column of heat is rising and cannot descend,
trapped by heavy freezing air beneath.

The next day you feel a PING!
when you look someone in the eye
and the cash drawer flies open.
All the gold and silver is lying there jingling.
It's yours to grab, but dims
on your palm,
because morning light is thick and white
with an unvarnished view of what's alive.

Now you try to keep your guessing to the night.
You can smell it, you think it moves.
Darkness is furtive and makes
everything stealthy stealthier
(and fears sharper, pain marbled),
but this boundlessness breaks the spell of confinement,
vast and vaster and all the things you ever saw,
or held in your hands or thought or said,
will remain unspoken,
because they haven't taken place.