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Dave Bonta
Snow doesn’t stop falling
when it hits the ground;
it just slows down for a while.
It’s like that talk-show host
who ridiculed the idea
of a day-time moon—
how I relished his show’s
slow collapse, despite
its glut of glitterati.
Our hosts had buried TVs all over the yard
& plugged them in. Screens hissed
their snow from the grass
as we drank draft beer from plastic cups.
They were like oracles, chthonic & obscure.
A young woman who appeared to be tripping
stopped short, stared & began to weep.
It’s not fighting, I said, trying to console.
It’s dancing.
It’s cosmic background radiation
& thermal noise, she said without looking up.
Reality is beautiful, you know?
I crouched down for a closer look.
It was 1990. The news was full
of the end of the Cold War
& the Gulf War was still weeks away.
watching tv we're caught
attacked hearts pounding
as the villain
nearly wins
then turn to tea and
crackers again caught, arguing:
was it good
or bad?
and sleep dream caught
in untidy films
dissolved at dawn
by fleeting minutes meals
each hour dissolving
the last hour we are
like actors in and out
of anecdotes
I watch her body wet and
dry her moods at dusk at
dawn she sips lemon tea
lemon shampoos blonde hair
lemon slice between glass and
blue eyes, a goddess of love
night and day. Beautiful
clothes shape silken breasts
swaddle golden child
intelligent conversation in
business in bed unmarried then
wed unavailable but saleable
relationship with her
one hour a day which is
everything, or nothing, or love.
It is because
I fear to wake them
behind the bolted door
of dreams.
The starving eyes,
the fragile ribs,
hollow gourds
on Shiva's belt.
They dance as
he dances
upon the
withered plain.
It is because
I fear to
name them.
The night whispers