To Memory

I. 

Like the moon dipped

And waned 

Her marble-heavy sails,

The sailors dismantled her

With their eyes

Like a slice of cake.

They longed to sink their teeth into

A nape of a neck so sweet;

“Little pearls,” they said,

“Atop her sails and sheets.”

She rocked in her harbor

Softly on a pale halo

By the thirsty sea,

Softly 

She fell,

Softly

As submission for the sailors

Who truly commanded

The tide. 

II.

I’m dreaming again. 

It’s god damned freezing out here, one of those stiff spring mornings where everything is frosted over- rooftops, buds on the weeping cherry trees, the neighbor’s cat- but the air feels a little flimsy, a little loose, like crystals in wedding cake frosting. I pull my thin sweater closer around my bare shoulders, like that could shut out the cold. It’s the color of soft oatmeal, and that makes me think of Ma. She loved to sprinkle cinnamon and raisins in her oatmeal while chatting with me over Columbian coffee, still in her slippers with the worn holes in the bottom and the flannel robe with the bacon grease stains. She would lightly trace the outline of her cream-colored mug while savoring the smooth taste and richness of the Columbian coffee beans she ground every morning. I would notice how the crows feet gingerly crept in upon her honey-comb irises, like the ancient crochet patterns in the doilies on our dining room table that had belonged to Nana, and wonder why a barrier as vested as muscle and intricate as lace existed between us at all. That was what she was, though, fragmenting muscle and lace. I remember thinking she was beautiful.

His brown eyes are chasing mine, but there is no breeze to catch them. I stand next to him, limitless and unyielding; my entire body is constrained against him, and even here, my bones rattle. He looks all sallow skin and protruding bone, and I wonder if I really think it has come to this: debilitated and delicate. I am sickeningly drawn to the jagged curvature of his jaw, like a thorny stem of a rose broken off carelessly and twisted. 

“Somewhere I can love you,” he murmurs. The atmosphere is static, raised on end, and staggered. I hope to God the pain does not reflect in my expression. I stand there shaking and he is still searching, poised and calm as if at any moment, he will dig his fingernails into my heart; I don’t want to see the subtlety of the sacrifice engraved into the lightless brown depths of his eyes, like a fading spoon in a bowl of warm oatmeal.

The spacious moon in the distance is orange and thinly hanging. 

Author's Note

A little something different from me.

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

A powerful poem. I had to read a second time. Memories will dance in our heads. Visions of what was and what could of been are the question that haunt our dreams and life. I like the feel and the structure of this poem. Thank you for your always outstanding poetry.
Coyote

[Emily B]

oh, oh

wondrous

[emmajoy]

This might be different, but, oh my, Hayley, the difference is utterly wonderful, intriguing, exciting, skilful, exploratory, heart-felt and more. You go from poem divine to prose that's as perfect as perfect can be.

Gasping for breath .. brava!

[Thomas Fitzgerald]

A crafted piece, it lends to the feeling of crossed emotions that read to us all, well done, good read.

[John Fitzgerald]

this is excellent. I love the second part - it is heavy with detail yet it moves unburdened.

favourite lines:-

His brown eyes are chasing mine, but there is no breeze to catch them

That was what she was, though, fragmenting muscle and lace. I remember thinking she was beautiful.

I pull my thin sweater closer around my bare shoulders, like that could shut out the cold

well done hayley :)

[Abdul Aziz]

I deliberated for a couple of hours as to how exactly to review this work of art. I then realized that I can't. I tried to then quote a favourite line, just so I could give the impression of having reviewed this. I then realized that each line, nay, each word, is a favourite. I hate indulging in hyperbole, so I wouldn't say that this is the best thing in the world since sliced bread, but this IS among the best works I've read online. You are a gifted writer. I have nothing more to say except that this is going in my favourites.

[Audrey Howitt]

To me both pieces speak to the flashes of visual memory that keep coming back--really lovely work

[Octob3r Star]

Love the layout

[Tate Morgan]

One of the best renditions of a morning yet