We rose from the promenade. The first silk dappled.
By boxed freight, we made our way in the world
practically weightless, fabric tormenting the desires
of men and women alike for smooth
and youth. I remember an almost sheer weave
a wave overtaking, overcloaking the bystanders
who cried out in exultation for the morning star.
Staring, pensive, we paused to refresh our will at a brook
under a willow. It brooked no obstruction. The green
greeted us like revelers at a party.
Only partly in jest, I would say,
this silk encircles our world, sulky as a mule
when the miles pile on. Meanwhile, back home,
flagons of moonlight flash out of sequence
on one sequin at a time, revealing
what we wore to the dance.
Deborah Ketai writes from the intersection of bipolar, bisexuality, and creative self-destruction, leavened with humor and wordplay. Her work has appeared in North Dakota Quarterly, Think, and other journals. She and her wife live in Connecticut’s Naugatuck Valley.
