After the Party

After the Party 

Blue beads dangle from your neck

like silent prayers

and you sit on the floor beside your bed

murmuring at your folded hands.

I walk in slowly so as not to move the air

that carries words

from your lips to God.

On the porch is the glider. 

Your grandma spent her last

years swaying and left her whispers

to hover by the oak. In those days

we said “cheers” for good-bye.

A breeze moves in. I love

your sapphire eyes

as the mountains

pour smoke across the valley

and ashes fall like gray snow

to bring forth winter

in the august heat.

We stand in this field,

staring down at the parched soil.

I think about September

when summer will have long since

withered the sunflowers

and turned their faces toward

the earth, leaving me alone

to weed this arid garden.

I need a potrait of you

to carry with me always.

I hold your face between

the sun and me to catch

the fiery outline of your silhouette

as it pours into my eyes

and burns your image forever

in the dark void

behind their lids.

                                           Robin Reda

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Tough pill

Tough pill

White threads in the holes of my Levis cluster,

resting in the dryer. It is the marginal order,

the way the worn memory exists.  

In sleep, I almost smell the oils in your hair,

scent of a girl hidden in imaginary numbers. 

Couldn’t we have danced the bones to marble? 

Or taken passionate the wine on our threadbare knees?

—the white fiber that bunches up when the

blue weave is gone and we know it? 

I agree with you, Heather.  I know the denim has

been washed from the orbit of the drum. 

Not:  Bleach-out the pink in your blouse.

But:  The aspirin chalk. Erosion in the tumbler. 

See these backlit rows of elevator buttons? 

How the integers start with 1?  Climb linear to the variable P?

I cannot find the function of P.  No parabola.

No solution.  Yet the rise and run still soaring into Undefined. 

The only cotton thread still left is Moon which

mocks the virtue I didn’t want in the first place.

My neurons errant fire.  Eyelids twitching flash of you. Then:

finality like the turned Tarot. Lying primal in your

bleached Calvin Kleins . You the first lunar entry module

landing in the camera’s lens.  As I draw back your

hair of scented oils –Girl to where clowns come down

in you and fade like the smell of rain.

                                  Robin Reda

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Welcome to the Electric Marmalade Poetry Blog!

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