Rembrandt's Nightwatchman Soliloquies, 14

Photograph by Duane Locke


REMBRANDT’S NIGHTWATCHMAN SOLILOQUIES 14

I recall how by salt water white puddles,
the burnt driftwood’s reflection tinted
your blonde skin vermillion.

Our cheeks touching, we looked into this white,
salty mirror,
we saw the reflected flames
burn apart our faces.

You went to California
and its dishonest beaches.
I stayed in this unknown, unnamed location,
listened to a wren’s song
from a hole in a cactus.

It was a half-moon on the last night
we were together.
The moon was like a tight wound warped
spool of white threads
unraveling to streak the sky
with broken strings.

I now imagine you in California
clawing at windows,
but the glass is unbreakable, '
the windows nailed closed.
I have received your indecipherable scribbles
called “letters.”

When you departed I thought of all
the deserts you would walk across.
How the air would be enriched with coyotes
howling at the cloud-covered moon.

I remember the nights we were together,
how you always wanted to slip the moon
into your heart, and let the light crawl
over blood vessels to your brain.

Now, you are gone, I in my backyard
touch the plum tree
whose white flowers your arm once circled,
but no slender arms now embrace
its blossoms and rough bark.


Duane Locke

Posted over on The Hold