THREE POEMS by A.B. Druwelyn

| Author's Bio | We the Wind | Coven | Voiceless |

 

Coven



They are the ones who stop on the sidewalk
To touch a high heel for no reason--just before daybreak
I've seen them at the shore ripping away their stockings
Like second skins.

In town they turn every head but their own,
Gazing to a point a step beyond your eyes
To burn your guardian angel to ashes.
A clasp of silence slows you
As the python of their lingering scent loosens its grip.

They are the ones turning to toss their hair,
Striking fire in your loins as if by accident.
They are drawn to mirrors.
In club restrooms they stand lifting and dropping
Their hair like silver coins. When sisters approach, they
Speak with their eyes. They lock the stalls together,
Whispering, fabric ripping.

They smile in perverse pleasure at your stumbling small-talk,
Icing you in the empty rooms of their eyes
Because you have nothing they haven't already had.

They have a map to the darkest doors of your soul.
They're waiting there,
Crossing their legs up ahead in your headlights
At that forgotten country crossroads beside the
Abandoned store that only you could remember--
Vanishing behind windy oaks as you slow.

The dance floor crowd turns to shadow
When their hips roll their allure to form,
When you can no longer tell the dancer
From the dance.

Hands thrown open upon the wind,
The night awakens to its own consciousness
Within their eyes; the air turns to black wine in
Their mouths as they run your dreams through their hair
Until it sparkles in perspiration,
Until you sit up in bed, a white cleft in the night. Wet.

They drop like cats through the dark,
Turning the corners of night as starlight trickles
From leaf to leaf, then they are the darkness,
Spilling into your dreams
Quietly as mist filling the dark intervals of trees.
They close their fingers to an inch of moonlight
To hold the elementals in thrall, scratching starlight down your back
As the seasons change in their eyes.
Glamours swirl with the sharp cold of autumn lingering about their
Torn-away cloths as they roll secret storms between
Their palms, crushing lightning into their fingers as winds
Whistle through their hands--opening, legs parting to
Dark flames where the wolves crouch. Primal spirals.

Across the dance floor's booming smoke you glimpse them
Like the silhouette of a dream; the world stops like a snapshot
Around their accelerated stillness. They appear to be awaiting nothing.
Then they're gone.

They move with the equipoise of ancient youth, collective memory
Of the huntress swallowing the manna of high priestesses
On slabs of stone.
Through the other's eyes they watch the horned moon rip the night
In borrowed light; they passed its iced truth one to the next like a
Chalice of jimson tea raised to the bloody mouth of time,
Back to the Daughters of Dionysus licking starshine from the other's
Flesh, braiding ecstasies through the turnings of dreams until
On a sidewalk they stop to touch a high heel--and in the passing
Dream the other's eyes they meet at the shore on the edge of the wet
Dawn to rip away their stockings like the veils of heaven.

Fingers entangled in the other's hair,
They gasp in colors Hendrix mixed
Untangling his fingers from the strings.
"Not necessarily stoned, but, beautiful."

- A.B. Druwelyn

 

 

 


This poem has been previously published — appearing in summer 2000 in The Blue Review, and in spring 2000 in A Writers' Choice Literary Journal, The Harrow, Nocturne, and in Lost Innocents Digest.