D. M. Frech, Clouds over the Shore
Resurrection of the Mannequins
Ruth Towne
Mirror-clear water bisects me as I rise
from under its polished surface. Above,
the moon is a jellyfish, a neon night light.
It hovers, that umbrella with its tentacles
in fuchsia blue and magenta. Before this,
I was a girl who came to life in the water,
a champagne glass curved and crystalline.
Not far from here, I think I hear a woman
scream, but her fear is music, siren’s song.
And how strange, if once there were stars
above me I can’t recall. Maybe they hanged
there while clouds concealed them, ordinary
as air the ocean surf has churned to foam.
Once, I was younger longer than expected.
And once, I had ideas of who I’d live to be.
I have a fragment of an idea, an impression
of a dream. Each orb substitutes for a star,
and it’s not the dream itself but a memory
of the dream, a particle of light arriving light
years later, an ancient light that passes on.
On shore, a handful of crystal figurines turn
on pointed toes, dancing under fluorescents,
those beautiful music box–bound ballerinas,
those exquisite dead in blush pink leotards.
They store their deaths in those music boxes.
On command the dancers turn. They assemblé.
They pirouette. Elsewhere, other dancers wait
their turns, passé. Once, they were becoming.
Now, no one speaks of them. Here, a headless
woman and the head of a woman are equal,
and no one can stomach one whole. Violence
is a commodity, a tiny tchotchke as common
as a half shell on any beach, bleach white,
ready for collection. Later, a crowd will feed
on my bare body–I, the ever-lovely carrion;
they, the rock-brown lobsters scavenging
a bouldered ocean floor. Somewhere close,
a melancholy melody swells, a hollow blow
of a nautilus shell follows. I know the song.
It’s welcoming me home to this far harbor
where the sea is dahlia blue and the medusa
moon pulses like a burnt nerve. It’s my turn–
somewhere, there’s a music box for me.
In another life, I dreamed I was a ballerina.
Ruth Towne
Mirror-clear water bisects me as I rise
from under its polished surface. Above,
the moon is a jellyfish, a neon night light.
It hovers, that umbrella with its tentacles
in fuchsia blue and magenta. Before this,
I was a girl who came to life in the water,
a champagne glass curved and crystalline.
Not far from here, I think I hear a woman
scream, but her fear is music, siren’s song.
And how strange, if once there were stars
above me I can’t recall. Maybe they hanged
there while clouds concealed them, ordinary
as air the ocean surf has churned to foam.
Once, I was younger longer than expected.
And once, I had ideas of who I’d live to be.
I have a fragment of an idea, an impression
of a dream. Each orb substitutes for a star,
and it’s not the dream itself but a memory
of the dream, a particle of light arriving light
years later, an ancient light that passes on.
On shore, a handful of crystal figurines turn
on pointed toes, dancing under fluorescents,
those beautiful music box–bound ballerinas,
those exquisite dead in blush pink leotards.
They store their deaths in those music boxes.
On command the dancers turn. They assemblé.
They pirouette. Elsewhere, other dancers wait
their turns, passé. Once, they were becoming.
Now, no one speaks of them. Here, a headless
woman and the head of a woman are equal,
and no one can stomach one whole. Violence
is a commodity, a tiny tchotchke as common
as a half shell on any beach, bleach white,
ready for collection. Later, a crowd will feed
on my bare body–I, the ever-lovely carrion;
they, the rock-brown lobsters scavenging
a bouldered ocean floor. Somewhere close,
a melancholy melody swells, a hollow blow
of a nautilus shell follows. I know the song.
It’s welcoming me home to this far harbor
where the sea is dahlia blue and the medusa
moon pulses like a burnt nerve. It’s my turn–
somewhere, there’s a music box for me.
In another life, I dreamed I was a ballerina.