for K.
I have seen you.
You said that you were fragile
but that was only half true
you said that you were lonely
but it was only love that tricked you
into coming to this place of blindness
to find some holy grail
you thought you’d left behind—
you said that you were angry
but even your rage is pure
as the dragonfly
skipping concentric ghost-ripples
of wind over water-glass;
as snowy owls in night trees
and patient spiderwebs;
hunger constructing silken
catwalks to capture beauty—
you warned me of your delicacy,
but I flipped right through your preface
and saw into the moonstone eye
of your heart-story, like aurora
borealis, silvery contrails
of heroically falling dreams
streaking and shifting in blue turns
as they tremble and singe in the atmosphere
of a dense planet, over polar magnitudes
where entire seasons are devoted
to the exclusive practice
of darkness or light—
You are strength that bleeds alone,
the snow-blind burn of heartache,
and the calm before a wave-crest breaks
in froth on the foam-lit shore.
You walk barefoot in your Arctic surf
and smile. Your eyes hold the secret
fortitude of stars. You are a lucky number
in your own back pocket,
waiting for the worthy hand
to draw you.
You told me you see ghosts.
Is this such a bad thing?
You are the luna moth
clinging to the moonbeam,
dancing in circular vespers,
protecting the sanctity
of dark.
I have seen you.
© Psyche Marks 2007