A dull glow along the eastern horizon. Wild streaks of orange and pink hover just above. A sliver of
grayish blue lingers to the west as if it’s still night on the other side of the city.
You wake with a jump, kicking the wall. Your t-shirt clings to your back with sweat.
you don’t have to love what I love--
Hawthorn. Holly. Birch. Blur into woods. Fields of grass and heather. Cows loosed for grazing, the wild
orchids caged for protection.
All around you the rustle of leaves sounds like a sea.
grass gives way to pavement
houses clothing lines chicken noises
the patter of rain
alone in its forever,
one drawn out note on a flute--
as if one person’s truth
could be everyone’s
eyebrows fold into faces
each in its own spectrum of light--
how closely do you look at me
and how much do you see?
in this soil, a thousand years
mulch, stones, the excrement of worms
rust red clay
a shard of flint
held once in the crook of a hand
an arrow a broken vessel
an image cast 6 billion light years away
the sun moves back to the centre
arm out, then
up to sitting
a dull ache through the side of the neck
a lone feather tangles in the grass
this moment is yours only
as if you watch from a train window,
into the distance
existence without thought
just a little further
too late to be undone
you wake inside the dream
then wake again
this is the air against your skin
There is no way back or out. Just stairs and doors. One door. Glows in the incandescent light. You reach
for. Is not a door. Is your hand. Clear glass. Reflected.
you run, climbing–
THE TOMORROW OF FORGETTING
everywhere I look or in my head there are words
there are words I tell you and they come and go like flashes of light
this is what you can be
if you try and if you listen
and if the dark thing speaks from deep inside
this is what it is to live in a body
and this is what they will make of us
as in the purple of violets and silverware and tables with patterned cloths
the vein beneath its skin thrumming towards the heart--
don’t you know (they say)
don’t you know what happens
when two faiths
or fifths or worlds collide?
and she only wanted a little
fire blood a temporary death
the blind man’s faltering hand, trodden-down passages
broken stones, the fallen
with their white eyes red
what will she choose?
what will we do?
what will become of this unity?
Copyright Rachel Lehrman 2014
Rachel Lehrman is a poet, writer, artist and mother living in the idyllic UK village of Chorleywood. Her work has previously appeared in Blue Fifth Review, Shearsman Magazine, The Drunken Boat, Fire Magazine and Spiral Orb. She published her first chapbook Second Waking with Oystercatcher Press in 2009. Rachel's work is also featured in the anthologies Infinite Difference: Other Poetries by UK Women Poets (Shearsman 2010) and Sea Pie: A Shearsman Anthology of Oystercatcher Poetry (2012). She completed her MFA in Creative Writing Poetry at the University of Arizona and a practice-based PhD focusing on Collaborative Authorship in the Arts at Roehampton University (2009).