Friday, April 28, 2006

The cherry stain

Miniatures lie
in my cupboard
Like pawns
on invisible,
black and white squares;
staring at me

When I look at them
they evade my eyes
One of them
with a picture of gypsy girl
steals glances at me

Can she hear
the rhubarb of my heart?
What is it really?
A liturgy
or have I been hexed?

In a dark recess
of my heart
I caress the gypsy girl
She puts up
a mock fight with me;
snatching cherries
from the clutches of my lips

Someone knocks on the door
The spell breaks
The gypsy girl is nothing
but a label on a tiny bottle

But I can still smell
the gypsy girl's musk
My shirt is stained
A cherry
has squirted on it

2 comments:

h said...

What a gorgeous and moving poem!

david raphael israel said...

nice indeed

d.i.