It’s all there in the disappearing light…
Sheryl St. Germain
wrapped in a turban of haze,
you call for me to come
with dusk-fallen hair and whale bone shaping
the curve of my corset —
my muslin slip
still dragging its hem — along cobblestones stained
with moss and rust shed from old gates
unlocked and leading
into the courtyard garden.
you summon moonlight
through the balcony doors. Cold and translucent
as those wandering about. I have slept
in chambers lit by this, lamented
with those who had no name, no voice
just the heaviness of breath. Their oleander scent
seeping through my skin as I glimpsed
the kind of being I would become.
Wingless but at times adrift
and sheer as the bayou mist or the hanging silk
of the cypress tree.
You draw writers into the green
decadence of your heart. Standing near
the verdigris railing of a porch, they drink
absinthe from filigreed glass and feel its emerald ghost
float through their senses.
As willows sweep in
voodoo chants and candle smoke, they dream of pale,
fluid women who are often seen
dancing on an ancient urn. Witch or vampiress
soon rises from the rib
of a first sentence and goes on to see
her shadow slide through swamp water frilled
with strains of blanket weed; and the wide sky spill
its mouthful of stars.
And through some obscure
nom de plume, one of your guests
perhaps gave birth to me.
Wendy Howe is an English teacher and freelance writer who lives in Southern California. Her poetry reflects her interest in myth, diverse landscapes, and ancient cultures. Over the years, she has been published in an assortment of journals both online and in print. Among them: Silver Blade Magazine, Gingerbread House Lit Magazine, Not One Of Us, Mirror Dance, Strange Horizons, Witches & Pagans Magazine, Goblin Fruit, Mythic Delirium, Eternal Haunted Summer, Corvid Queen, Liminality, The Poetry Salzburg Review and Eye To The Telescope. Her most recent work will be forthcoming in Carmina Magazine and The Copper Field Review later this year.