The fact remains,
I’ve more creases
on my hands, body, limbs
than on the day I married—
back when time stopped
and spread like fans,
softly gusting fans
that now lift the ashen remains
of my newness, dreams stopped
up like a baby’s mouth, just-born creases
all filled with birth-stuff, cord married
to hands, body and limbs.
spread like fans
when we were married,
loving the times you remained
inside and slept, sheets in creases—
Moonlight fretted, chorded, stopped
like music, its mysteries topped
by the arch of time’s muscled dragon limb,
his desiccating breath increases
then subsides: A bellows, a wind, a fan.
Time flexes, remains
thick—the fist of it, squeezing, marries
dream to fire until the unmarred
hunger of heat stops
all dreams, leaving black bones, bleak remains.
No face, no heart, no limbs,
just an echo of soft tissue, a fan
of ash white on the ground. Sound decreases,
all sight and magnificence of love decreases
over time. The dragon exhales—oxygen marries
oxygen and time flares, l’enfant
terrible. Thus our marriage stopped
mid-sentence, mid-breath, mid-limb-
stretch, like Neanderthal remains
married to the ice, remains
of an age, fanned limbs
astride glacier, skins creased, breath stopped.
Samara Golabuk is a Pushcart nominee whose work has appeared or is forthcoming in Inklette, Eyedrum Periodically, Peacock Journal, Memoryhouse and others. She has two children, works in marketing and design, and has returned to university to complete her BA in Poetry. More at http://www.samarawords.com.