Mickey Ithuriel takes a walk
Mickey Ithuriel had a rainy moustache.
In nocte ambulo was his favourite song.
In a time-honoured manner he loved a lady
he was not supposed to love.
This did not make him any crazier
than he must have been before he started.
Mickey Ithuriel wrote down a great long list
of reasons he should celebrate. Then
he threw away his list so he would have
more time in which to celebrate.
(This is a simple formula.)
He was worried for a time,
worried that his life might turn
into some sort of balcony scene.
He got up from the table and went for a long walk.
He saw faces bright in windows, people sitting
up in trees, dancing covens of wild garlic,
the sun going down and coming up like some
sort of crazy grapefruit on a celestial mission.
He saw the lean bodies of summer winds,
the fine rotundity of certain words.
Then he experienced the strange capriciousness
of the human ribcage, which constricts
with the sudden memory of her face.
My god! he thought, she moves like birdsong,
she breathes like the death of similes.
She walks through my life,
a movement of air rustles the tall, pale grass,
the purple flowers by the sunwarmed river.
In a dream he lay with her for the first time.
The morning wasn't ready, and the moon
still lit the small room quietly. She told him
something true, and they both glowed.
The Antigonish Review, 104 (Winter, 1996): 33.
© 1996 by K.J.H. Berland