So, it has been a skeleton who’s been telling us
that she remains a skeleton,
a curtain that she remains a curtain.
Is she to be left so abstract,
so lost in the unease of history?
Can it be that those who are her fingerprints must sit
atop the glass? Can it be that this is all we are,
little wrinkles that hold the dust?
Or have we been like ancient poets
who kiss the chalice and let winter tell
spring that it must always be a thing for the future—
as if metaphors could be mixed like a cocktail,
as if drunken sailors drink the sea…
I know that it cannot be Sleeping Beauty dead
in there, clawed and hungry, her mouth a foam—
certainly not anything we might try to
awaken with a princely kiss.
But, if we can push aside all
our ugly worm-encrusted faces,
we might yet see her reflection in that reflection,
even though it must sting to be so.
…that her poem should be like
a rainbow deep inside all our bosoms,
and always there; it should rumble through
our open mouths like a train through an open tunnel…
O, my Beauty. My beauty…