Beloved, Desert Wind
I.
I am with her
today,
and I am holding her hand.
Five months ago
she stumbled in
out of the crackling rain;
her hair the way
children draw lightning streaks,
or ocean waves,
or foliage on trees,
she turned me away
from my own cathode-ray-tube idol,
and caught my attention. She threw aside
her London Fog as the butterfly
abandons the chrysalis, I thought,
and sat me down.
Seven minutes after that,
I was a mile away,
splashing down in Dearfoam slippers,
and reciting her name aloud.
II.
Repetitive sound, such as that of a dance club,
or a heartbeat, or a mantra droned on
serves to dull my consciousness.
I knew this was coming, I knew this was coming,
I knew this was coming, I knew this was coming,
I knew this was coming.
They called her whore
and worse.
I called her my beloved,
my desert wind.
The walls are a sick green,
and smell of antiseptic and pine,
unfamiliar and aggressive.
She winces at the glare
of the instruments
arranged like gems on the tray.
I gained admittance
(So rare that they
ever come! they said)
by special dispensation.
III.
She touches my hand,
trembling,
as I touch her face,
brushing aside lightning streaks
and ocean waves and foliage on trees
and the covers of my bed
as a child.
Her eyes are a song,
and my sight narrows
to the iris. Now constricted,
now dilated. And she is dilated,
as the instruments clatter,
pulled and stretched and torn,
as my heart dies in my chest,
as my heart dies in her womb.
And all my tears,
and threats, and arguments
did nothing to alter our course
or to save any hope for
today.
IV.
Her eyes gaze upward
to her feet,
and my eyes gaze downward
into hers. She'll bleed
for a few days, they said,
she may need counseling.
She buckles the sandals to her
feet and I recite her social security
number and I fumble for my Master
Card and I smell the antiseptic,
and I reach out for her hand,
now a cold soft stone,
and mine is kelp washed ashore.
We walk out from the sick green walls,
shoulder to shoulder,
and into sunlight and noise.
They call her whore
and worse.
I tell her "You are my beloved,
you are my desert wind."
Timothy A. Clark
1997