Poem of the Day. Linda Hull
di
Redazione Italia, April 30, 2016
Redazione Italia, April 30, 2016
 |
JACKSON
HOTEL
HOTEL
Sometimes
after hours of wine I can almost see
after hours of wine I can almost see
the night
gliding in low off the harbor
gliding in low off the harbor
down the
long avenues of shop windows
long avenues of shop windows
past
mannequins, perfect in their gestures.
mannequins, perfect in their gestures.
I leave
water steaming on the gas ring
water steaming on the gas ring
and
sometimes I can slip from my body,
sometimes I can slip from my body,
almost find
the sinlge word to prevent evenings
the sinlge word to prevent evenings
that absolve
nothing, a winter lived alone
nothing, a winter lived alone
and cold.
Rooms where you somehow marry
Rooms where you somehow marry
the losses
of strangers that tremble
of strangers that tremble
on the walks
like the hands
like the hands
of the
dancer next door, luminous
dancer next door, luminous
with
Methedrine, she taps walls for hours
Methedrine, she taps walls for hours
murmuring
about the silver she swears
about the silver she swears
lines the
building, the hallways
building, the hallways
where each
night drunks stammer their
night drunks stammer their
usual rosary
until they come to rest
until they come to rest
beneath the
tarnished numbers, the bulbs
tarnished numbers, the bulbs
that star
each ceiling.
each ceiling.
I must tell
you I am afraid to sit here
you I am afraid to sit here
losing
myself to the hour’s slow erasure
myself to the hour’s slow erasure
until I know
myself only by this cold weight,
myself only by this cold weight,
this hand on
my lap, palm up.
my lap, palm up.
I want to
still the dancer’s hands
still the dancer’s hands
in mine, to
talk about forgiveness
talk about forgiveness
and what we
leave behind – faces
leave behind – faces
and cities,
the small emergencies
the small emergencies
of nights. I
say nothing, but
say nothing, but
leaning on
the sill, I watch her leave
the sill, I watch her leave
at that
moment
moment
when the
first taxis start rolling
first taxis start rolling
to the
lights of Chinatown, powered
lights of Chinatown, powered
by sad and
human desire. I watch her fade
human desire. I watch her fade
down the
street until she’s a smudge,
street until she’s a smudge,
violet in
the circle of my breath. A figure
the circle of my breath. A figure
so small I
could cup her in my hands.
could cup her in my hands.
Lynda Hull
