Miranda. O, wonder!
How many goodly creatures are there here!
How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world
That has such people in’t!
Prospero. ’Tis new to thee.
Her nails are lacquered, I am moved. Who else
comes around to her door ordinary
in bare skin?
Do you dare bank your fires in my boudoir?
Come here, baby, give deep suck to my life
so I may move with you and where we wish.
The door closes. The intercom shut off,
the room that is her sole home goes quiet.
Laughter and blood’s shiver thread their bodies!
Papa has a wand, its voice fills her air.
This is her hour of memory.
What he conjures he conceals, then reveals
her bare feet tracking over the ship’s deck
come to the island of giddy old souls
and wise to the wickedness of lovers
who have no courage so do not love her
as she would them, and they are not for her.
Papa smiles upon her from his heaven.
This image gently haunts my aging mind.
I tell her I love her and will always
be here where she may reach me in distress.
The uncommon has become uncommon,
truth no longer separate from fiction.
Throw your life on the ashes, stir to flame.
I am not unhappy, Mama declares,
I am simply weary in my body,
but enough! you wake my soul! Is it yours?
(11 September 2012)
copyright 2012 by Floyce Alexander