Waiting for the Perseids
I want to steer him out onto
the veranda;
he says he doesn't believe in wishing on stars
nor in gravity, for that matter.
On some days he wants to ask for proof of both
regardless of miracles, cracks in the pavement
and the substance he's smoked the night before.
His hands know the secret of ink stains,
how they suck blackness from thunderclouds
until he refuses to dream in anything but colour –
mad fish defying freak currents, serpents moulting
in a painted desert, pomegranate seeds, bananas
he attempts to straighten with swift fingers.
Meteors shower down on me, he draws the curtains;
a grasshopper rubs against grass blades - I wish
I could carry the sound to him, between my lips.
He shivers a love song on the Steinway grand,
sleepwalks me home across a city feeding on dreams,
tiny splinters of stardust getting stuck in our bare feet.
[First published in Arabesques Review]
Michaela
A. Gabriel
lives in Vienna, where she helps adults acquire computer and English skills,
and gets together with the muse as often as possible. She has published or has
work forthcoming in Bent Pin Quarterly, Redactions, Envoi,
Pebble Lake Review, and kaleidowhirl. When she's not writing, she
is reading, listening to music, taking photos, watching movies, blogging,
communicating with friends, or travelling – usually several of these at
the same time.