THE DAUGHTERS OF LONGING

All by Florence Mary Anderson

THE DAUGHTERS OF LONGING

This belongs to the night.

It has those lights about it.

It has that shape we love

That curls into our own body

As we lie abed, not sleeping

But remembering how sleep

Was and what kinds of gifts

It brought to us.

We are unable to speak,

Think ourselves still asleep,

Covered in the cream of darkness

That pulls on our legs, urges us

To dance if only for a moment.

We stand upon the water.

This must be the part of dreaming.

But we find we are water, we

Move through one another,

Scooped into an iridescence

That we can barely remember,

“Mommy, I was glowing.  Am

I still glowing?  I think I am.”

There is Saturday everywhere.

The morning leaks through the blinds,

Slides across the room and finds

Our eyes.  “Yes, you are still

Glowing.”  Right now, it’s the sun

On your skin, the soft, tiny hairs

On the body captures light for

Its moment and fills the morning

With smiles that will stay with us.

They are the daughters of longing.

LA NOCHE

LA NOCHE

It bothers me

that the night

is outside minding its own

business while I am

in my room half

expecting you to appear

in the bed next to me.

You, with your brow arched,

surprised to have been

shipped across the night

like so much luggage;

the white roses of sleep

still in your skin.

I would be as surprised.

Hello? It would be like

saying hello to 

myself on this late August

night, where the voices

of dogs are so small

in the distance, that my breath

seems huge. no, hellos

would never do.

The dark just outside the

window waits for me to put

the lights out. It has ways

of getting to me, of opening

the dreams like oranges

and spilling these thoughts

of you all around me,

before I can catch a glimpse

of you shuttling across the

night air, not alarmed

at all by this thinking

it is just the changing

of the season that causes

these things. not alarmed

by the love of it. not at all.

Knowing you will wake up

far away from this room,

the night being busy

with so much else. with

traffic and dogs and things

of its fabric as to

make such journeys a

matter of reaching to the end

of the bed and pulling

another blanket up above

your shoulders.

STARS LEAVING THEIR PLACES

STARS LEAVING THEIR PLACES

She lists well, that is

She neither perches

Or will sing, but coraciiform

And with catoptric eye reflects

All that is best in love and searchs,

Lively as a leveret

Room upon sweet room of

Heart’s folly, almost a test

To see what’s only guessed in

The lippers of emotions

That in their ruffling defines

The shape of depths

That lie below mere words.

The heart with its working,

Sucked up from the sea,

She sees as silver fish,

Forgeries of jewelry.

lists - an archaic use of the word as a transitive verb meaning 'to be pleasing to;suit.

coraciiform - an order of birds with strong sharp bills, usually bright coloration like bee eaters or hornbills.  One of my favorite families theyalways have a haughty look to them.

catroptic - not that obscure but it means reflecting or related to mirrors.

a leveret is a young hare but hardly anyone calls them that these days.

and lippers - ah yes, a slightly rough surface of a body of water.  I used to hear it on the Great Lakes but haven't heard it for years.