Tangles – anna hood

She said: Geese etch triangles
across a pewter sky. The Pownal River
rattles his great jagged teeth,
scrapes the sun’s reflection
over his cellophane skin while north winds
bleach marsh grass the colour of tea.
The kingfishers have returned;
they sit, ick-ick-ick on the wire
above the pond. Tough pale shoots of tiger
lilies thrust themselves from earth
brick red. Her golden horses
prance and kick in their frozen pasture.
Manure piles steam.

She told me: long ago
when they were young
luck lived inside
their summer brown bodies - an invited guest -
their mouths tangled around
each other like a good merlot
or N’awlins coffee smooth with chicory.
Her velvet curtains trembled
guitars when they kissed.
She wrote love poems
on his right thigh.
He planted apricot trees.

She says: now luck’s moved on
leaving her body pale
fragile as Limoge china,
tissue paper. In the dark she’s alone
with The Shopping Channel
some decorating maven god forbid
Gilligan’s Island
Brown Bats.

It is March after all.