Saturday, September 8, 2012


Now I grasp seaweed around my neck
in my sleep.
The bottom is taking me back.
If I were to wake . . .

Arc de Triomphe, city of walkers,
Seine below the bridge,
valor's undertow.
The wall falls, there is the old world again.
Do you
believe snow falls in the north
while she dons a bikini in the south?
I am not myself.

Young, I believed the world would be won
for my father
who is long dead. My mother no longer
mourns. Now who mourns her?
I remember her last advice:
Raise hell, my bairn, or there will be no
heaven on earth.

You see the sky and you hear trees fall
Paris, Berlin, Odessa.
The great city of my youth, Mexico, D. F.,
city I loved more than any other.
I speak but no one hears,
I am no one now.

The lake of flowers shimmers like joy
in the lingering voices
I hear so many places I can’t count
in my sleep.

(8 September 2012)

copyright 2012 by Floyce Alexander

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