THREE POEMS.
By Mary Bamburg
Aubade
Torrent of my heart, light
burns in the predawn haze; in the fog
that shreds off the river crescent,
bowed out silvery sleek,
deceptively placid – profound currents
surge beneath the rippled surface —
murmur lazy summer to the banks.
Sing the morning song, mighty Mississippi,
roar Hail and Rise to the city you cradle,
to the sides of the trundlesome barges and steamboats
piping shrill fanfares across flat shoals;
shout Rise in the burnished glory of the dawn,
and later, croon jazz lullabies
to twilight’s blue tide washing through the streets,
when the lights go on and the drinks come out;
rock the city of my heart to indigo dreams
with the shush and slap of wavelets on the banks.
Not an Elegy
for RB
The images run together when I blink: behind
my eyelids, pinprick needles trail white tubing
into her hand like bloated thread, like
sewing her up, like stitching her here
to this body.
Her dark hair against the sheet – she is every goddess
of the underworld – deep red highlights, jewel-tone
pomegranate streaks. Her cheeks are pale
as the pillowcase. Her brown eyes closed.
I can’t close mine.
I'd write her as my Persephone, bringing her back
to candles that smell like summer and pillows
the colors of tulips, but I am
afraid of Eurydice's shadow.
To try and fail
would be too much, even in a poem, superstitious
to a fault, but I can't think of her thus, lost
in the long dark, even for a line.
I can't drape her in shadows, not when
she is my light.
Hair and needle and bed three hundred twenty miles away,
pomegranates and stark cave walls in my head.
I can write of nothing else, can barely
think of other words or how to shape
them. She, sister,
younger, treasure, beloved, hates to be fragile, hates
to be thought of as sick; she hears 'sick' but thinks
'condemned'. She’s told me so. But dying
one day is no excuse for dying
today, not when
we, I, need her so. There will never be a day – it’s
pointless to argue. Persephone lived at
Zeus’ word, for a goddess's grief.
What strength has a sister's plea, even
mine, next to that?
Stellis Maris
Her nightly ritual: she slides
one arched foot beneath the glassy surface.
Her skin flushes upward from the ankle.
Steam blossoms across the mirror.
She sinks inch by inch into rosy sandalwood heat.
Cashmere makes her sigh, eyes half-closed.
She is perhaps too enamored of feathers.
No one finds peacocks so enchanting.
No one else drowns in sleek, purple dusk seashells,
but she has a craving for colors –
rich amethyst Chanel hats,
sequined turquoise stilettos,
tangerine and saffron beveled glass lamps,
glorious sweeping black skirts.
She buys vodka in cerulean glass bottles,
tastes cool silver at the edges of night.
She has a goddess complex —
a porcelain mask edged in stark
swan plumage, a small fountain burbling
across quartz pebbles, a room draped in silk,
jewel tones, warm in the winter, bright.
Author bio:
Born and raised in Louisiana, Mary Bamburg now resides in Alabama, where she teaches high school English and reads poetry to her daughters. Her poetry has appeared in Cordite Poetry Review, Belle Rêve Literary Journal, The Gambler Mag, From the Roaring Deep, Tracks, With Lyre and Bow, and Fiolet & Wing. Mary can be found on twitter @maryscolour.