for Esperanza, who said,
I saw you moving among the moors, your manor, and my heart.
Not Wolfman Jack, the L.A. DJ,
or Lon Chaney Jr.’s original,
but Anthony Hopkins, Shakespearean
Welshman. The tyrant in Titus.
Old man with your frozen life,
remember when she ran
with you the moors, roamed
the manor, gave her heart
license to entwine with yours.
I would read her, then engrave
the countryside with my mark,
do my atavistic dance with her
. . . into her future.
The moon, the opium, the live TV,
friends back in the world,
telling the Seventh Calvary
to go get fucked up and fill the hole
with George Armstrong Custer,
1969 swallowing the tail of 1876.
Paula, who loved me then, was there.
When she left that house to go north
I followed, south. Forty years passed
learning regret, the wages of old love.
Esperanza, take my heart for yours.
Esperanza, you know what your name
means to me in these ebbing years.
Esperanza, shield me from full moons.
(13 December 2013)
copyright 2013 by Floyce Alexander