The Dance
By Katherine E. Young
Driving through Quebec in a winter storm,
I turned off the main road, thinking to take
the long way around; so that when the snow
came down like angel feathers cocooning
the car, the fields, the villages, I was
as far, as far from knowing where I was,
where I wished to be, as if that knowledge
had never existed. We were making
the dance: car, snow, the white-clad houses and
icy fields, making it up as we went
along. We danced the dance of strangers who
might have been lovers, had we only been
free; had there been more time; had that road sign
not reared up, shrieking its red-hot warning
above the thunder of our steps. I gasped,
halted. But the snow danced on; then I was
melting, gray-faced, into the night.
(First appeared in Poet Lore, 101:3-4, Fall/Winter 2006)
Stars With Blazing Hair
I have watched them up there, flaming across
the sky, twirling on orbits still unlearned,
arcing, wheeling, scattering wild sparks that
light up the night, forming constellations
never before seen by mortals beneath….
Even the ones who flicker, flame out, leave
a trail of ash that lingers in the sky,
stinging to tears our rapt, upturned eyes.
(First appeared in The Innisfree Poetry Journal, Winter 2006)
Rusalka
Bishkek, Kirghizstan
(for Ruth)
When last we met, she said, "He still makes me
cappuccino in the morning," meaning
with her words to evoke the silken gown,
the warm milk, the Tien Shan sunning itself
in the window glass, the soft, petaling
flesh of the marriage bed. Her voice silvered
like water passing among reeds, as if
the language were not her own; and perhaps,
indeed, she belonged to that watery
race of nymphs who wander from folk tales in
times of trouble seeking shelter, offering
none in return….
Now a man sits alone in a kitchen
in Asia palming an empty pitcher,
the warmth from his hands clouding its metal
finish. Second marriage — he was older —
he had thought to know more. He fingers
the spout, the plastic knobs, the chrome belly
of the coffee god, reflecting yet again
on antimony, flaws in the alloy,
silver dust in her hair.
(First appeared in Shenandoah, 52:1, Spring 2002)