In the Light of Dreaming Rinny
She was a lens in the sun
in a corner fitting into herself
settling in like batter. Smooth and easy.
And music. Oh, the music everywhere.
Romantic Russian anguish
splaying loud—
like hearing your dreams
turned up loud for all to read.
At night in a quiet room
she sank into a light of dreaming
her dreams she now thinks
were black and white
photographs of a stilled history.
Of the wars–D-Day, Dachau, Hiroshima
All that drama frozen in those faces looking.
Like she is
Her coffee eyes staring out
into the flat-screens of time.
And now– closed doors and the whispers,
Horrible hush of home movies happening.
Large photos of Jews pressing against each other gasping for space,
Joe Stalin looming terrible and gritty in his large wool clothes.
And her mother hiding alone by herself
For hours here in the afternoon. Kooklah Fran and Ollie.
Pain prick-points. Where she is
in a corner. Not knowing how to.
Her thick braids itching against this quiet.
Holding on to the sun. Which she can taste fading on her lips.
Sometimes in those pictures, some times,
dark women with bright bandanas.
She thinks she sees the sister she never knew, fitting into herself.
Guessing into all this past, her paprika eyes mazing
about how to know the bold darkness of this light.
and the tremulous force driving all the flowers of all her feeling.
by Linda E. Chown
from Numéro Cinq Magazine