photo: ralph murre
Aubade
by Marjorie Stamm Rosenfeld
The Awakening
Early
your aunt has come.
This is a visit.
We talk of this and that and you.
We sip coffee and are reflective,
looking out this window mirroring
other windows, porches, the packing
crates of the newly arrived,
the corrugated metal roofs of
carports, and beyond.
This is the second story.
It is possible to take the broad
view,
although we are somewhat enclosed.
"He will always love you,"
she is saying.
(You said that too.)
I am circumspect, thinking of
enclosure--
of trees, close-branched and silver;
your arms; a forest; and frenzy.
Your aunt is assiduous, saying,
" . . . love you."
I hold my mug tightly, the coffee
burning hot.
Sweat moustaches my lip.
Dew frosts the forest—light grays its
sunken, still lake.
It is morning now, and you wake
blurred, newly born, and damply
regard your dawn.
In one corner of your eye (the eye
nearest the window)
is a single drop reflecting you, me,
your aunt, walls, wife, light, blind--
The trees outside your window
stagger, reel, then stand again;
on your pillow you turn to your
bride.
You lie . . . reach . . .
Morning. The forest is littered
with light.
I am in my own house, the door barred
against tangible intruders.
I hold up in my palm a peach the
color of dawn
and bite it. Its juice is
sweet.
Every tooth is alive. My mouth
aches. My tongue is torn out.
You lie . . .
I think you are someone I made up in
a moment between sleep and waking.
It is morning. I don't believe
you anymore.
~ Previously published in Travois: An Anthology of
Texas Poetry (Contemporary
Arts Museum
