A Cold Morning

A Cold Morning
by Theodora Goss

It was the sort of morning
when cold got into my bones.

Outside, the snow would not melt
until March, probably. It lay
on the porch like a thin layer of frosting
topped with powdered sugar
along the arms of the blue chair
and matching bench, dusting
the roof of the bird feeder.
It outlined every branch
of the hawthorn that had once
hidden the parking lot
of the neighboring house,
but was bare now.

As I felt bare, like a landscape
of whites and grays and browns
with streams running through me,
covered with panes of ice
through which you could see water
moving, if you looked closely.

I would not melt either,
I thought, until
the days grew longer,
the sun shone with some warmth
(this pale, cold disk in the sky
must be her widowed sister)
or until, somehow, you returned
to thaw me
with your hands, your breath.
Not until then.

(The image is The Magpie by Claude Monet.)

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Your House

Your House
by Theodora Goss

One day, it may be time
to dismantle your house.

Yes, the one you built so carefully
of brick, remembering the third pig
in the fairy tale, to be storm-proof
and wolf-proof, to stand
for a hundred years. The house
you thought you would retire in,
perhaps die in.

But maybe you found rain
falling from the ceilings, wind
whistling around the rooms,
making the fire gutter. Maybe a hunger
you don’t understand began
gnawing at your belly. Maybe
the house became a coffin out of which
you are desperate to awaken,
like Snow White out of her glass casket.
Maybe the fairy tale ended wrong,
maybe you were, all along,
in the wrong story.
Maybe the house you thought was yours
was not, after all, the one you
could live in.

So you take it apart, brick by brick.
Take down the chimney, take up
the floorboards. Hopefully
someone else will recycle them.
And you set out on your journey,
the one you did not want to make,
the one that is inevitable,
although over the mountains
a storm is brewing,
and the forest, you know,
is filled with wolves.

(The image is Houses at Auvers by Vincent van Gogh.)

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The Mountain

The Mountain
by Theodora Goss

Has anyone ever told you
that the changing expressions on your face
are like the weather on a mountain?

Sometimes sunlit, but more often veiled in clouds,
always mysterious, like fog moving among pine trees,
hiding the valleys while rocky peaks, capped with snow,
rise shining above the variegated darkness
of forested slopes. Sometimes there are storms,
and lightning comes down like a judgment,
brilliant and startling. Sometimes soft rains fall,
and streams run through the mountain’s hollows and gullies,
spilling over its crags until the river
that winds through the valleys is overfull
of clear water, clean enough for a baptism.
At night, the moon bends over its ridge like a woman
watching her lover sleep. Her light
reaches down tenderly to caress granite and shale.
In the morning, dew covers the petals
of violets growing under the shadow of red oaks
from last year’s leaf mold.

In any weather, the mountain remains itself —
earthbound but perpetually reaching upward
as though it could find answers among the stars,
or the dawn that arrives each morning
to set its heights on fire.

(The image is The Rocky Mountains, Lander’s Peak by Albert Bierstadt.)

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by Theodora Goss

If you were in hell,
for the sin of eating pomegranates
or something equally nonsensical,
I would go down myself
into Hades’ stagnant realm,
passing Cerberus, tossing him a biscuit,
and have a talk with Persephone.

Goddess, I would tell her,
you understand longing. You have felt
it in your chest, that piece of red thread
tied around your heart, pulling
you upward in spring, toward your mother,
toward the ground sprouting hyacinths, narcissi;
pulling you down again to your dark lord
when winter comes.

Goddess, give me this man,
although he is bound to your service,
although he has a face fairer than the ships
of the Achaeans and eyes like rain,
which you, who appreciate beauty in men,
collecting the best of them, Achilles,
Hector, Patroclus, must admire.
Give him to me, out of pity,
one woman to another.

If you deny this request,
I will stay here with him, a disturbance,
a discrepancy in the land of the dead.

When she gave you back to me,
I would take your hand and lead you
to the land of the living, never once
looking back, no matter how much I wanted
to see your face. My love
would be stronger than my curiosity.

I would not look at you until
you stood beside me again in sunlight
under the blossoming olive trees
on Mount Ida.

(The image is Proserpina by Dante Gabriel Rossetti.)

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The Resolution

The Resolution
by Theodora Goss

Let him go, let him go, cried the white dove,
let him go, let him go, cried the brown.
Let him fly to the wide blue sky
and circle over the town.

Let him wing his way to the mountains
from which he originally came.
You cannot keep a falcon
that will never be tame.

He was not yours to begin with,
so resolve to let him depart,
and keep, if you wish, the memory
as an ache in your heart.

(The image is Lady With a Dove (Madame Loeser) by John Brett.)

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The Waltz

The Waltz
by Theodora Goss

I am dancing with your shadow in perfect three-four time,
while violins are playing a cacophonous, sublime
waltz that sounds like caterwauling, and the constellations chime.

He has eyes like flecks of silver in a face as dark as night,
and he holds me in a grip that is just a little tight.
I can’t tell if what I’m feeling is terror or delight.

The dancing floor is floating beneath a pitted moon
that looks down in consternation at the madness of the tune,
the precision of the dancers, moving as though one.

The floor is made of darkness, the walls carved out of space,
there are no violinists but they never lose their place,
and your shadow is a vision of sinister grace.

For all my faults and follies, I will try to make amends,
forgive my dearest rivals, confront my nearest friends,
if I can keep on dreaming and the music never ends.

(The image is Les Feuilles Mortes by Remedios Varo.)

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What the Queen Said

What the Queen Said
by Theodora Goss

One night when the waves were whispering
on the rocks of the shore,
and the moon was spreading her wings
of cloud,

I stood at my window and touched
an alba rose,
then spoke what I had been thinking

“Make her as white as this rose-tree
beneath the moon,
make her as dark as the whispering

“Give her a heart that rejoices
when night has come,
and give her also a heart
that grieves.

“Let her dance on the shore in slippers
of tide and foam,
let her sleep in the garden while petals

“I will gladly renounce — ” and I spread
my hands in the dark —
“everything, if you will give
her all.”

(The image is Enchantment by Maxfield Parrish.)

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