| Two Poems by Michael Boccardo
Bliss A young artist dreams of bliss under the golden rapture of night’s elusive candle. He sits spellbound, marooned by thought and shadow, all folded arms and bow-tie nerves, eyelashes trembling like blades of grass stirred by restless winds. Canvas stretches exposed skin before him, Four corners tight, beckoning virgin to virgin. He follows the map of his hand through chambers in a palace called and lifts a finger dripping violet smoke. The first caress is like paradise splitting open. Breath surges, dusted the color of snow. Pores marble to Braille. Hands gyrate, frenzied movements threatening victory over the marathon against his heart. Images of sunsets surface drowning in fever-pitched waters, dreams tinted gold as Egyptian sands, nightmares shaded with fangs and witching hour madness. Additional strokes bid sanctity a kiss goodbye as reality swings its door wide. And he discovers his masterpiece washed clean, a Cheshire grin suspended over lush hues and tones remembered like sugar, staining his lips. To My Heart in Winter O young Heart, silly Heart, you have grown tender under the weight of all your tenacious winters. Moments before the sun surrendered beneath its demure coat of green velvet, seconds before autumn’s shackles rusted and fell shivering down to earth in mad spirals, Wagging a finger stern as an invading icicle splitting your spine into separate months, separate days, contrary as snowflakes crudely carved in no determined order upon the palm of your hand, Don’t trust the silence. February is full of noise, and chattering bone, the chalkboard shrieks of blood raging beneath the ice. Weary, damaged faces you left behind surface in an avalanche: eyes open like funnels lips twist the shade of extinction on a thin vaporous thread. Here the baby-faced devil tiptoes across their reflections like a fawn and dips his silver shaft into the star-cracked water, sipping solitude from their bruised portraits. But you are young you are still foolish, and beckon him out of the blizzard to hibernate within the cup of your ribs until the spring thaw. At night you keep him close as a scar, promises weeping from his tongue, scarlet in your ear, translucent in your mouth like memories, like omens. Michael Boccardo |