Dancing to the Past

Saturday night�s Moonlight Serenade and I�m running late. No one waits for me in the foyer so I dash for the dining room, high-heels clacking on cheap linoleum. I hear his laughter first. That wide, toothy grin shines forth from chortle and guffaw. Sheer joy crinkles his sea green eyes into twinkling slits. One glance and I can�t help smiling back.

drums set red rhythms
with a tish, tish, tish, boom, crash �
hearts start pumpin� fast

I walk toward him. He cannot sit still, waves his arms to express his thrill. Nearly ninety and, even now, sporting those Hollywood good looks: boyish cheeks, Marine Corps jaw, straight nose and etched lips. Those large hands long for a piano, tennis-shoes itch to dance.

bass plucks out blue notes
way down low under the skin �
feet tap-tappin� now

Hearty despite infirmity, he sings though sadness beckons. I sing along, jitterbug with one of the food servers. This makes him cry, but he keeps smiling as big as the full moon. I return to him, winded, laughing.

wind soars through black wood;
brass, piano jump in last �
Benny at his best

I walk him back to his room, smoke a cigarette on the cage of a concrete patio as he gets changed for the night. You would think it would be difficult to picture that six-foot, barrel-chested charmer as he dozes, drooping in his wheelchair, but it�s easy. I kiss his cheek, whisper, �Goodnight, Daddy.�

music ends too soon;
listen, sing, dance to the past �
even death smiles

In A Moment

It�s when your entire skin hurts,
not just your heart, when tears

burn your eyes, singe your cheeks
as though a fissure deep inside

spews molten organic matter,
formed from your bones, tissue,

and you know you can go on,
or go crazy, or even die from it

but you can�t go back, can�t touch
what�s irretrievable, gone, because

the pieces you know you're supposed
to pick up, want to clutch close, cling to,

elude you, turn into a silvery liquid
like mercury that poisons your heart

with what ifs and irreversible nevers �
when nothing stays in your hands

long enough to solve the puzzle
you became the moment she died.

Fresh Snow

fresh snow
could turn this day
bearable; just a fine
covering of glistening white
would help

heartache
be gone away;
I need but one small sign
that sorrow will ever submit
to hope

angels
surround me now
but I want the living
just once more in my aching arms
to kiss

                                                                                                � Wiltshire

Loch Raven Review Winter 2005 — Vol. I, No. 2
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