Showboat - unpacked

The blood moon craves attention.
She bangs the glass, panel by panel
parading past a naked canopy, oak and ash.
She's desperate for praise, for veneration,
for long moments of worship like the early days:
a world lit only by fire.
It's only as her golden lens
floods tiny goblets in a south window,
that I notice six little lanterns of moonlight,
fire flush, ringing in sonorous treasure, a suspended chord,
a perfect 4th  of salty satin harmony with sky. 
And I melt into moment –
eyes, ears, skin, tongue, breast, belly, legs –
adrift her Indian ragas -  puddle of moonbeam.
Heavy with silver lipped boats, moans of stone,
With pub revelers, ranting, whistling - something about football;
With drone strike bloodbaths, cacophonies of grief,
gravediggers, muddy boots, dark caskets,
someone’s grandfather, mother, sister.
With knitting circles, with sex slaves,
with cock fights, with string quartets.
Tides of grackles, tides of jelly fish,
tides of hajjis, seven seconds to show time,
With disappearing islands, rising rivers, silent snow,
blue whale cartwheels and aisles of smiles.
With Japonica and jonquils blooming in January
just before the seed catalogs arrive.
A kaleidoscope of moonbeams in a moment, with her eyes.
I am six little lanterns in a world lit by wonder
and the showboat coasts into cobalt clouds.
“Honey, welcome to the Kasbah,” she confides.


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