SMALL MOUND OF STONES by Peter Verbica

Of course,

 

the dark thoughts come to me

at dusk,

 

binding and unbinding

like a continuum

of blackbirds

in the rain.

 

On the shelf,

you’ll find our frosted hourglass

 

filled with sugar

and cinnamon,

 

and pumice and ash.

 

In a drawer,

negatives capture us

in suspense

 

like wax-papered leaves

ironed into a book:

 

our eating fish in Portugal,

 

our holding up bicycles

under an olive tree in Spain,

 

our squinting in a field of lavender

in France.

 

By the time

I make my way

to the yellow umbrella of light

and push open the Dutch doors,

 

you’ll have been gone a decade.

 

The upright stands still

in the barn,

until I lift the hinge

at the keyboard

and put a boot on a pedal

 

so that I can hear

boldness in the echoes:

 

Such are the notes

I play,

my fingers following each other,

floating

like the ghosts of horses —

 

leaping over fences

of broken chords,

 

pawing their hooves,

and slowing alongside a stream

 

filled with eddies

and decaying notes,

 

while the world herself

opens during the day

and closes at night,

 

as if an orchid.

 

Listen,

 

I won’t tell you that God

is a master illusionist,

hypnotizing us with the pendulum

of our lives.

 

But, if I could sing,

what would come from my mouth

would rise from the roots,

would bring to you

 

the waters of what I am.

 

Outside,

a flash of phosphorous,

the footfalls of thunder,

and the smell of lightning.

 

For a briefest moment

I see everything:

 

the silhouette

of our clinker-brick house,

 

the vineyard lane,

 

even the small mound of stones

where we stood in tears

after burying our dog.