“Floating Worlds”

FLOATING WORLDS

Breath forced through pursed
lips floats the bubbles
high, rising, away,
dripping with suds.
The bubbles blush
Pink-to-violet
tints that slide across
the skin of the spheres
as I follow,
focused on their
translucent shapes.

Air alone can move them,
my touch too solid
to shepherd such delicacy
One by one they break,
vanish, leave space
emptier than it was
before they were here.
The pastel rainbow
disappears with them
and I miss it for
the rest of the day.

By Joyce Stein

“Pillows”

PILLOWS

The stripes on my pillow don’t match
where the seams join the two sides.
Shoddy pillow making is like shoddy love making,
forced, painful.
Push and twist,
stuff and shove,
the parts don’t mesh, the don’t fit,
same as shoes that feel too tight with heavy socks on.

It’s no good going on when that happens.
Much better to think of something else,
different and exhilarating.
Riding on a merry-go-round for example.
Horses start out distinct individuals.
Avoid the ones that don’t go up and down, they’re a waste of energy.
The others chase each other as they spin,.
but even though they go faster
they never catch up.
I don’t want to be on the last one
all alone and left behind
as the others gallop off and disappear outside.

The tigers don’t go, they don’t even move.
Maybe they’re dangerous and can’t be trusted,
like some people,
like my lover.
From late afternoon business meetings
he’d come home,
hang up his coat,
talk daily trivia,
eat a quick dinner,
go to bed and turn on his side, his back to me.

I would touch him and his flesh was cold, and stayed cold.
When I outlined my body against him he’d pull away.
No touch or caress could arouse him, so
I would stop and wipe my wet cheeks on the pillowcase.
Staring, without seeing,
I would finally notice that the stripes don’t match.

By Joyce Stein

“The Sun The Moon”

THE SUN, THE MOON

I can stare at the sun without
blinking, the smoke is so thick.
I watch it change from pumpkin
to vermilion through a thickening
pall of smoke dragged down
to the sea by Santa Ana winds.
The fire storm sucked up moisture
from trees, vacuumed out the air
from buildings. Everything
collapsed where it passed.

A young girl, wearing gloves,
sifts through ashes, broken
glass, looking for her diary.
A man weeps over lost photos,
the piano that held them a twisted
pile of strings. Neighbors
hold each other, for a while.

At sunset, the desolation
forms black holes ringed with
shooting flames sweeping over ridges.
The rising moon gives little light.
It’s not a hearty harvest moon,
but a sickle of rust, a pale
imitation of the burnt sienna sun.

As the fires die down and the smoke
clears, no one will be able to stare
directly at the sun. The moon
will show a little more of itself
each night as its rusty tinge fades.

By Joyce Stein

“Autumn in New York”

AUTUMN IN NEW YOUR

That year, trees clung to their leaves,
refused to release them, wouldn’t let them fall.
The leaves turned,
green to red, to yellow, to brown.
Spotted with dirt
made ragged by insects,
they were held by the stubborn limbs.

Leaves themselves wouldn’t let go,
stuck to the tight mother-glue
of green sap that nourished them,
some reached their potential,
some faced early demise.
All Stubbornly held fast.

Men did not rake or mound
them. No children mashed
them into snapping,
crackling shreds.
That year limbgs and leaves
held onto each other,
in terror of hurtling down,
destruction by fire.

This winter, 2001 buried
in memory, the leaves
will release and drop,
baring the limbs.

By Joyce Stein