Breath & Shadow

A collection of my poems, some dark, some on the lighter side, some new, some previously published, and some I like to call "Brautigans," after one of my favorite poets. Hope you'll enjoy them!

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Author's note

Copyright © 2018 Antoinette McCormick

All rights reserved. This e-book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a review.
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5. Moon Shadow

 

When she awakens, she is dead.
His face, the Moon's, a hovering ghost
A screen against which cranes rise and crash,
And rise again ...
When she awakens,
She is dead.


His leaving dries upon her flesh so brittle
Tissue fragile: a dead butterfly's wings buffeted by wind.
She runs a cautious tongue across her teeth and licks her lips
Tasting only salt and grit.
T
he searching kisses, the velvet tongue, slip
Into memory's lavender-tinted distance beneath the dawn.
He would not lead her, though she followed
Hands sliding into the cave of his heart
Unlatching Death's door, calling down the Dark
Until his secrets swirled inside her
Whorls of dust. The pressure and the stealing warmth
A dance of motes, a myth of fingerprints.

When she awakens, she is
A tendril of mist encircling
The moon's silver shadow
A variation on a theme
A last note lingering in still air

She is the cry of a mourning dove in autumn:
She can see her breath.

 

When she awakens, she is dead.
His face, the Moon's, a hovering ghost

A screen against which cranes rise and crash,

And rise again ...

When she awakens,

She is dead.

His leaving dries upon her flesh, so brittle

Tissue fragile: a dead butterfly's wings buffeted by wind.

She runs a cautious tongue across her teeth and licks her lips

Tasting only salt and grit.

The searching kisses, the velvet tongue, slip
 Become memory's lavender-tinted distance beneath the dawn.

He would not lead her, though she followed

Hands sliding into the cave of his heart

Unlatching Death's door, calling down the Dark

Until his secrets swirled inside her
Whorls of dust. The pressure and the stealing warmth

A dance of motes, a myth of fingerprints.

When she awakens, she is

A tendril of mist encircling

The moon's silver shadow

A variation on a theme

A last note lingering in still air

She is the cry of a mourning dove in autumn:

She can see her breath.

 
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