Poem For My One-Legged Lover, the Wine Glass, No. 43

POEM FOR MY ONE-LEGGED LOVER, THE WINE GLASS, NO 43

The forgotten
Or what never had happened
Became iconic.
She wore for beads
Bulldogs from gum ball machines.
The icons
Mosaiced on her skull's walls,
Their stiffness,
Caused the gumball dogs
To sniff and bark
In a chorus,
An ancient ritual,
Older than Greece,
A prototype of Aristophanes.
When I touched her
I saw flying low over snow,
The white owl's eyes
That brought a fiery color
To the whiteness and life.
But when I touched
My hand was transformed
Into the fleshless, gold
Hand of an icon.


Duane Locke

Posted over on Motherbird