Was That a Kiss, Chandelier? Donavon Davidson
Light is too awkward a word for what happened.
That they thought darkness is too embarrassing for a girl lifting a blue dress.
Both were present at all times.
He believed she a lighthouse
with every perfume a terrible awakening
coming and going.
It was different from what he thought was night –
the dew felt red.
She believed he a chandelier with every corner a softness she couldn’t see
fading in and out.
It was confusing under those stars she never held –
the sun rose at all times,
even after the flying felt cold.
Donavon holds an MFA from Goddard College, and his poetry has been published in Quay: A Journal of the Arts, SNreview, Holly Rose Review, Evergreen Review, Barnwood International Poetry Magazine, Stirring: A Literary Collection, and WordRiot (forthcoming). He currently lives in Vermont where he is an adjunct professor at the Community College of Vermont.
[13]
I know how hidden God must feel out there on the edge of something dangerous.
If you forget to fall no one will blame you.
The snow banks leave a scar upon each night where someone left with what you are missing.
I was afraid a thief would not come and I would have nothing to say. How would I know what was missing?
All I could hear was the stutter of my house – pictures, plates, plants
while the five voices of my heart were frozen in distant snows.
I began to count the bodies of everything green that stopped trying, that stopped speaking.
I wanted to hear from the man who jumped from his roof into what he thought was sleep and broke every bone in his weight, but there is no wind these days.
Maybe I could make it too, I thought. Maybe, each heart has a flight because no one ever says anything in time.
The Night the Snow Banks Called to My House
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