On the Wings of a Ray
The sunlight spirals from the sky, falling
down to the viridian ground on which
a couple sits who bask in light; the rich,
radiant rays are silken, a dove’s wing.
The emanations begin to thin, slanting
and sliding through a torn cloud, fading
to fuchsia that flows like water, shading
the sky as if it were canvas, granting
reprieve from the sun’s scorn. I watch—alone—
as the couple stands, gathers their things, kiss,
and walk away. Who’s there for me to miss?
By now, the moon has eclipsed the sun, has shown
faintly, its beam delicate strands of pearl.
Luminescence traces my skin, the moon—
my sole mate—evokes cognitions that noon
denies with harsh light. The mind will unfurl
as if it were a map. Its details, though,
are an endless catacomb: the thoughts stopped
at the root; psychic roads that sprawl are chopped
in half. In moonlit night, I’ve come to know
that from which I run: I confess that I
desire someone to tell me more than words—
love is as fleeting as a flock of birds,
and that dove has wheeled to the blown, black sky.
The cool caress of midnight comes again,
but there’s no comfort. The night wind’s whisper
is not so temperate, as though it were
fingers of ice grazing my tender skin.
While slow, light strengthens and the moon sinks
into a washed-out blue that spreads across
the sky. Dawn blazes, the knell for the loss
of night. The day has come and the mind blanks
at the sight. The night thoughts have all but drained;
the day has dawned. As for my loneliness,
perhaps today will give me one to miss.
Though, I’ve only a moon that’s all but waned.
Life
I’ve come to learn that some will care little
if life crumbles to glass shards, to brittle
fragments that slice your soft skin, the trickle
of blood that stains the white fabric of life.
Days rise and recede, a repeat of strife,
the ascendance of the moon’s sickle—a knife
tearing through the black tapestry of night.
Under the weak leakage of lunar light,
my pen traces the page; I try to write
the story of a better time. I’m told
that I should not desire control, to hold
the past and future in my palm. I’ve sold
my soul, I confess, to know how things end.
To where will the river of my time wend?
Such thoughts assail at night, and I can lend
only a guess as flimsy as cellophane.
Now, as the morning rises to attain
the sky, I’m left fatigued and with a train
of thought derailed, the steel is warped; the wood
rotted. Today, I hope to do more than brood.
I’ve come to learn that life must be withstood.
Alexander Lazarus Wolff‘s writing has appeared in The Best American Poetry website, Poets.org, The Citron Review, NDQ, Society of Classical Poets, South Florida Poetry Journal, Serotonin, and elsewhere. He graduated with honors from the College of William & Mary, where he won The Academy of American Poets Prize. He is a poetry editor for The Plentitudes. An MFA candidate, he teaches and studies at the University of Houston, where he is the recipient of three fellowships. You can find him and more of his work on Facebook, on Instagram/Twitter: @wolffalex108, and at alexanderlazaruswolff.com.
Sparks of Calliope 