from the Book of Light
By: Noeme Grace C. Tabor-Farjani
I.
The moonlight spreads in her bed like a luminous linen where hopes write themselves on water.
The readers watch in vigil for rising tides, for surge of tokens, for the arrangement of words to pocket in the phrases, of phases of the moon in the mirror for tomorrow’s prophecies.
II.
A book of ego
Or a wrestling match
Between darkness and light
But who is light?
Is it the one that drives evil away?
One that sends your fears
Melting in its heat?
But you are not light,
Only mere reflection.
Write, book of shadows
That shine on their own
In their solitude
The solace found
From twinkle of stars.
Again, not light.
III.
My most ancient of dreams, some prancing in the skies, the curling wave-like rolls in the stomach in every descent and ascent similar to desires. Am I not divinely blessed with more than five senses? A thousand sins and redemptions.
Is this some call a Curse? To see gothic shadows, curves of evil on bathroom tiles, terror from the twinkle in his eyes. I wince at the clanging of dishes he soaps. I yearn for some clean, quiet time of fresh sheets and bright light, washed face on crisp linen. I see the popping out of cherry blossoms on the curtain, the silky pattern of peacock leaves, the gliding of pen on paper like sweet, smooth, warm golden turmeric in the mouth.
Should I not call this Grace? Some fill for meandering vessels, misgivings tucked, tight within tortuous crevices reserved for its own to see my own faults, the vile sparkle in his eyes that are my monsters checking themselves out in that mirror. I bed them, cradle them under the blanket while he does the chores.
Tell me once more, are these blessings, not curse?
IV.
you settle in movements of muse
endless chores backdropped with
her choir you cannot quite choose
which way to take to continue sweeping the floor
or run to your notes
already crafting while hands clean
she taunts you with images
blurring the floor that needs mopping
the silence the jazz carols
the hollow spaces of a room
once a few hours ago
cramped with sweet sticky shindig
of little souls
tease the heart
actually no torment
somewhere in the dizzying
speed of work hold that thought
there
a fold of who you once were
or still are
tucked between the hallowed sacredness
of the laundry the dishes
meals the profane
secrets and wishes
present but wrinkled by forgetting