Melbourne Beach, 1965

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Melbourne Beach, 1965

By Nancy A. Henry

It is the forgotten things that will eat
your brilliant skin like rust.
Before I knew myself I was
music and a small bone,
muscle around melody,
my father the jaguar,
my mother the moon.
He spun her around
on the slick parquet floor
in the sapphire light,
in the ruby light,
in the gin and vermouth light of the bar
as the sleepy child watched
over turquoise paper parasol.
If you have mercy on your heart,
she will flower in silence.
She will produce fruit for you,
when you are dying of longing.
There was a cherry in the glass
a slice of orange
speared by a sword
the length of my smallest finger.
What you refuse will crush
your joy alive.
Consider the ridiculous measure
of your heart beats,

life so short,
the saxophones, brass angels
spitting magic into the jeweled night.