Summer 2011

Table of Contents - Vol. VII, No. 2

Poetry    Fiction    Translations     Reviews

Christine Bloom


A Ghazal Sequence: In Memoriam
Backwards, we travel, down the narrow streets of time.
We search for windows into the meanings of our lives.
Somewhere, in between the idle thrum of bumblebees,
I remember a whisper of a kiss brush my lips.
Sifting loose soil through my fingers, I plant a lily,
a bright spot, stark against the dark earth.
In the garden, bold blue jays dart, white-throated quail strut.
From a sunny window, we smile and press our foreheads to the glass.
The life we lived drifts into my dreams.
The warmth of your body lies beside mine.
I am blind to trees green with leaves.
Deaf to chattering birds, rustling branches.
Light reflects off the windows of our empty house,
Shadows flicker along the wall where we embraced.
I wear your jacket lost in your scent.
Cherry tobacco and a pipe buried in the pockets.

I yearn for the squeak of your shoes on the path.
Your jangling keys and pocket change are my music.
In my dreams we nap in the garden swing,
tend beds of roses, dance in the rain.

Tasting Salt
A Quatrina

We dive into waves, swim past seals
whose bodies glisten on rocky ledges,
float on our backs until fingertips touch.
Wings of pelicans curve overhead. Salt
coats our lips, leaves a soft powder of salt
on our skin. Gulls clamor in blue skies, seals
bark diving from rocks. Our bodies touch
when we climb cliffs to a ledge.
We hold onto slim slate ledges,
ocean spray washes us with salty
mist. In the last rays of the sun, seals
paddle to shore to rest, muzzles touch.
My head lies on your shoulder, we touch
our lips to taste the ocean’s salt
in our kisses. We press our bodies into the ledge.
A tangle of arms and legs forms a seal.
Seals slip from their rocky ledges.
Our hands touch. We sip salt from our skin.


The Visit
An Etheree

flowers bloom
near her gravestone.
Worn hands smooth the dust
from the letters that spell
her name carved in grey granite.
A cloudy frame fixed in the stone,
a small face, dark hair, communion veil,
tiny hands hold a small white prayer book.

© Christine Bloom

Poetry    Fiction    Translations     Reviews

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