Read More: A Brief Q&A with Sherry Abaldo
Thought We Were Too Old for This
We swallowed history last night.
You filled me again and again,
afterward asking, Did I hurt you?
I whisper my bones into yours.
The hotel maid keeps closing
the blackout curtains. We keep
opening them so desert shines,
blows, slides in – a million
lifetimes, only this moment,
this gold breathless dust to which
we shall return soon enough,
soon enough,
my love,
the longing for water.
Sunday Drive to Mount Charleston
Ended up with a deep grey GT from Avis –
heavy doors, spoiler, prehistoric purr under the hood –
dressed for 107 when it was 70,
you in a wife beater, me in whatever
they call a wife beater on a woman.
Six wild horses nibbled grass by the road,
one red-maned stallion and five mares.
Late Sunday sun lined creosote bushes
silver, coated the Joshua trees gold,
not strong enough to penetrate down
to our feet at the ponderosas, the
bristlecones. So many women with dogs.
Houses big as museums on tiny lots,
two small hikes, cathedral rocks, what
we did in the car. Racing southwest,
suddenly we are young again, sap-veined,
drum-hearted and -headed – the moment
you have to pull over.
Witchery
You require a new language of me, some new
tongue all backstreets and cathedrals, foreign
beach strung with lights and a rainbow of tiny
wood fishing boats. Want me to sit on your
lap at the hotel bar, nuzzle your neck, at our
age. Need to know, despite the long ravenous
salty sweet arc of history, you were the only
one I ever loved. What is truth? What is
love? We descend into dark pools of
philosophy. Then of ancestry. I explain I am
descended from witches on either side –
Susannah North, Rebecca Nourse – who
am I to argue with destiny? Women burn
at the stake, pay the price, men go home
to their wives and wash their fingers.
You, though – you love me like a god,
not a man. Under your hands I am reborn.
Veils fall from my eyes. My whetstone
mouth opens, no words except
More. Stars melt gentle holes in the night.
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Sherry Abaldo’s writing has appeared or is forthcoming in The New York Times, ONE ART, Rattle, SWWIM, Down East Magazine, and on The History Channel and PBS among other outlets. Her poem “Big Island” was nominated for Best of the Net by The Mackinaw: A Journal of Prose Poetry. She has worked as an award-winning journalist, film writer, and researcher on many projects, including the nonfiction World War II book The Dangerous Shore to be released in March. She lives with her husband in Las Vegas, Nevada and her native midcoast Maine. More at: www.sherryabaldo.com.
Read More: A Brief Q&A with Sherry Abaldo