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On Survey Station B379: Rotation V
(a solo zip rengay)
just past dawn an empty spaceport
the whirr of stasis chambers
she dreams of abandonment scent of jasmine
miners too long in the dark
weighing in always weighing in
remembering beer when spring followed winter
his breath against the nape of her neck
all those letters unread
alternating temperatures cold colder
moving toward us a cluster of stars
come nightfall three new moons
Notes to The Eulogists Presiding Over My Wake
Part I
--After Charlaine Coleman
Tell them my mind and body were
never quite sound. That I really was
from Alpha Centauri, abandoned on
earth, that the gypsies who gave me
to my parents were from near Rigel
rather than Romania or Spain, that
while my father named me after
Terry and the Pirates (what did they expect
from a cartoonist’s foundling?), they were
really space pirates come to earth to
leave—rather than take—treasure.
Serve margaritas with salt to toss over
their shoulders, play “Wild Thing, I Think
I Love You”, over and over and over again,
because when I was alive, some telepathic
friend played it in my head and it drove me
mad! Some Coltrane would be nice, too.
Perhaps some Miles, and Sleeping People.
Be sure to give me to the fire, then to
ocean swells at dawn. And if anyone
asks, I cared deeply, even loved them
for a time. Not in the same way I loved
the ruby stars of a pomegranate, but
each in their own way, as a universe unfolding.
And if someone asks how long it takes
to journey home, pick a dandelion, blow
its tufts to the wind, listen for the sound
of Dakinis dancing.
I've been through too many cycles at this laundromat
-after Robert Melvin
The scent of bleach makes me want to gag,
but there's nothing more to throw up what
with these surround-sound memories rising
like bacteria from old tile.
My mind's been set on high heat so long it's
sucked free of moisture. . .Too many cycles,
I've been through too many cycles at this
Laundromat, so all I do is dry heave.
There’s nothing left but spinspinspin. . .
My heart is these old threadbare jeans,
shredded by too many hours, too many
hours on high heat, too many hours of
incessant hunger--and then the buzzer rings. . .
I look toward the window. . .those eyes. . .
those eyes in the window. . .those feral eyes.
END
(a solo zip rengay)
just past dawn an empty spaceport
the whirr of stasis chambers
she dreams of abandonment scent of jasmine
miners too long in the dark
weighing in always weighing in
remembering beer when spring followed winter
his breath against the nape of her neck
all those letters unread
alternating temperatures cold colder
moving toward us a cluster of stars
come nightfall three new moons
Notes to The Eulogists Presiding Over My Wake
Part I
--After Charlaine Coleman
Tell them my mind and body were
never quite sound. That I really was
from Alpha Centauri, abandoned on
earth, that the gypsies who gave me
to my parents were from near Rigel
rather than Romania or Spain, that
while my father named me after
Terry and the Pirates (what did they expect
from a cartoonist’s foundling?), they were
really space pirates come to earth to
leave—rather than take—treasure.
Serve margaritas with salt to toss over
their shoulders, play “Wild Thing, I Think
I Love You”, over and over and over again,
because when I was alive, some telepathic
friend played it in my head and it drove me
mad! Some Coltrane would be nice, too.
Perhaps some Miles, and Sleeping People.
Be sure to give me to the fire, then to
ocean swells at dawn. And if anyone
asks, I cared deeply, even loved them
for a time. Not in the same way I loved
the ruby stars of a pomegranate, but
each in their own way, as a universe unfolding.
And if someone asks how long it takes
to journey home, pick a dandelion, blow
its tufts to the wind, listen for the sound
of Dakinis dancing.
I've been through too many cycles at this laundromat
-after Robert Melvin
The scent of bleach makes me want to gag,
but there's nothing more to throw up what
with these surround-sound memories rising
like bacteria from old tile.
My mind's been set on high heat so long it's
sucked free of moisture. . .Too many cycles,
I've been through too many cycles at this
Laundromat, so all I do is dry heave.
There’s nothing left but spinspinspin. . .
My heart is these old threadbare jeans,
shredded by too many hours, too many
hours on high heat, too many hours of
incessant hunger--and then the buzzer rings. . .
I look toward the window. . .those eyes. . .
those eyes in the window. . .those feral eyes.
END
Terrie Leigh Relf lives in Ocean
Beach, which is in San Diego, CA.
She is on staff at Sam's Dot
Publishing, and is the poetry editor
for Tales from the Moonlit Path.
Her handbook, The Poet's
Workshop--and Beyond, as well as
her fourth collection of poetry, My
Friend, the Poet, and other poems
about people I think I know, have
recently been released from Sam's
Dot.
Beach, which is in San Diego, CA.
She is on staff at Sam's Dot
Publishing, and is the poetry editor
for Tales from the Moonlit Path.
Her handbook, The Poet's
Workshop--and Beyond, as well as
her fourth collection of poetry, My
Friend, the Poet, and other poems
about people I think I know, have
recently been released from Sam's
Dot.
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