I hear a trumpet this night, visualize the
trumpeter’s lips
pursed, the cheeks
inflated to produce a sound
that echoes in the spaces between the disks
of my spine
as I stand naked this night, this
implausibly hot night.
The heat makes everything unreal… trapped
here
unable to move, the trumpet’s sound
creating me, undoing me,
calling me home and away again, prying into
my mind.
I grow fearful I might forget who I have
become - the choices
that cannot be unmade; the actions,
thoughtless and destructive, that litter
like sun-glinting bottles strewn beside a
highway.
This Van Gogh night - the colours melt,
merge, bend
with sounds, with smells, with memory; the
stars are not
right and yet
their swirling bright attack on the dark,
like that trumpet,
gives me heart as I stand in the front
of this open window, the breeze wafting
as the brick exudes heat and my mind
imagines a thousand possible excuses…
she stirs behind me -
I had hoped this was not to be or
that this me standing here
was not me
or that the picture I had tried to paint
as my life
had become my reality and the trumpet was
soothing
not
The Siren calling me out again.
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