Two From Tasha

Heights

He told me of a certain statue- -

a stone maiden, painted pink pinafore,

reaching her hand out

four floors above a bar in Halifax, Canada.

A normal-haired Rapunzel,

a wife welcoming her other,

a lonely goddess.

I scan a famous metropolis and see them.

Not intently reaching out

but wait, with their eyes…

we read eachother’s gaze directly across

weird wiring and fire escape gardens,

with wafts of burning cheese and forgotten trash.

We look away initially,

abashed or perhaps shy,

it’s shockingly intimate twenty feet apart,

delving into one another’s yearning

for a sailor’s serenade.

Snow and a Memory

Rows of snow 

seem to have discussed with the longitudes

as they are uniform in column formation

all at the same pace, communist snow.

I sit in my abandoned apartment and watch.

I regress to a trip I took,

one that has nothing to do with snow.

We had weaved our way north,

We, Liliputians in the giant Redwood forests.

Through mountain roads, relying on the stars, or actually the car’s brights.

Starlight sounds more romantic.

Through a rain so heavy I could hear nothing else.

Also through a few emotional thickets,

it had been two years since our last embrace.

We played with our little cousins- -football in a Portland park,

seaweed wars on Bainbridge Island.

We made believe, then I stepped onto a ferry

and he married another, gave birth to a girl.

The snow just slowed; bigger chunks inch back and forth,

flurries scatter, as wind entered the picture.