Andromeda

A Poem

Dear Fellow Dreamer,

Many years ago, an editor I worked with said, “The job of a poem is to take your hand and invite you: ‘Come with me.’” That’s it. No need to explain itself.

By that colleague’s definition, reading and writing poetry share a common aim—to spark release from an ordinary day. A welcome trip. Sitting down at my desk, when I’m lucky, I feel the grip of that invisible hand and we’re away.

It was like that with this poem.

To my delight, “Andromeda” now appears in the first issue of Montréal’s new SQUID Literary & Arts Magazine. This week I’m sharing it in case you’d enjoy a little departure from this world.

Photo by Олег Мороз on Unsplash

Andromeda

Perspective’s my game—flame feathers on that gown you chose
for our first sojourn on the continent, lapis at my neck, 
and I kissed your fingers, pearl of my saved heart.

You glimpsed me tied to that rock for the tide-sweep monster on his way,
bound because my mother had a boundaries issue (lived vicariously through 
her bragging)
though I admit, I was a pretty thing in those days, 
those far, far-away, wishes-were-horses ways of living.     

Music golden, the yellow fedora on your young head as we strolled
through town, and even Poseidon didn’t push back—rose above,
swam down, his wont—you see? Perspective.

I’ve always believed there’s another way of viewing things, even lashed to that rock
with the suck of tide, spreading out, drawing in, and the way you landed
the sea serpent—weight of stone, not even a battle.
Submergence far beneath—and I, a naked girl so lithe,
no belly creases then, soft palms and rattle, sleeves made of nests.

The cougar’s eyes, two lights on purple mountain, Mount Kailash, perhaps.
That lapis-shimmering river—and we got on our knees, all hands and liquid,
lips and conifer mist.

You bought Park Place.
I gave you a warm front and mint, peppery on the tongue-tip,
t-strap grin as I took you spreading out, drawing in.

Oh, the numbers on the opposite sides of dice always equal seven.
You rolled me, spreading out, drawing in: six sons and a daughter,
years of milk and mashed spinach, no chiffon in those days,
just carabao mango eaten alone when I had the chance.
And G10—somewhere a frequency, that dog-in-heat-stay-away-from-me look
I gave you.
You were patient, Perseus.

Bare branches, floating cup, elusive.
So many nights of those loud voices, rubbed amber in my pocket, smooth
on the palm.
You didn’t mind my belly. I didn’t mind your boring talk, in some ways 
like my mother,
though she’d been chained to a rock years ago.

And the football injuries, the muddy shoes, and someone always shouting, all 
the too-loud radios;
whispery muslin-curtain moments, rare.

Leader of humankind—I had to laugh at that one. Most of the time I was
washing dishes,
waiting for that last hour of quiet in their growing years, before they left, and I 
couldn’t sleep.
Advising like a man—that’s another one that gets me.

Most of the time you were off somewhere, consorting
with the Queen of Swords in your cape of invisibility.
I was checking the VISA statement and, mindful of her husband,
making a room for myself of green feathers—
spreading out, drawing in.

What do you do with boredom?
That was a many-days question I escaped from in the red slippers of my room,
the gold guitar and bitter-lemon thrill of my own makings:

la estrella,
             la estrella

Oh, we contented ourselves.
I enjoyed your company on our walks through the markets and high hills. Perspective.
That time you got the car and spiralled us through the tree-lined paths, and I loved you
and the black ground.

And I confess, my dear, after all these years, I loved the sea.
But we didn’t talk about it.

Monarch butterfly kiss on my cheek. You, my last earthly embrace when we 
were two bags of bones,
so comfortable on that sunny deck. Your checked pants, my well-creamed
skin, opalescent and smelling of cucumber.

Into the sky I went, when it was time to go. Perspective.
And oh, I’ve enjoyed the mountains from a height.
Anemone, phlox, yellow button flower, September gold—
all so far below the barred spiral galaxy I’ve become, rewarded for a life
of marriage.

And you—those meteor showers I behold—at a comfortable distance, 
you were ever one for a show, and I know (it was a sore point between us) you liked attention.

Sometimes I think about the ocean, and the rock, and the leather
strap across the ribs,
under my breasts—yes, I know, I was pretty, too pretty for my parents,
but those were long-ago days. Beauty is a fickle bitch.

Still, I think about the tide’s suck and silver kisses coming in arcs across sand,
salt-bubbly and persistent,
and I confess, my dear, there are times I wish I could have seen him—the brute
you cast, meteor-hard,
to the bottom.

I’d give my lapis for just a glimpse of his young-monster form, the tentacled
sweat and force of him,
appetite coming hard and taking me whole. Swirl in the blue, stop of skin.
No sheen of galaxies.

Still, I loved you in your yellow fedora, and our knees,
the way we talked even long past the lights were dimmed,
holding hands before the bellflowers.


© Robin Blackburn McBride

Between now and the end of April, as I prepare my novel, River of Dreams, for final submission to its publisher, I’ll be shifting to a bi-weekly mailing schedule. Look for my next letter to you on Valentine’s Day, Friday, February 14th.