Inisheer, beyond the edge-

Airié knows
that we rely too much
on vapor from coffee mugs
to tell of the cold.
She turns to strangers
for their omnipresence,
finding her comfort in her being alone.
And all of our holding hands in
dark parking lots
and through crowded hallways
proves nothing except the reflex of muscle and heart.
I watch her eyes for more,
seeking a telling wince,
but Airié keeps pointing out my moods.

Writers are annoying in that way.

She analyzes rings on tables,
and speculates on belts and jeans,
and keeps avoiding mirrors and still, open puddles.
I know that she seeks islands,
shrouded by heather and the smell of sheep,
and hungers for the magic of a ship
and storms that blow like reason over seas.
She, like I, would discard the sunsets
that we finds so frightening,
and all the unease of the dawn.

So we order from a catalog:
a sweater in gourd, leggings in cranberry, a scarf of chiffon
the color of shaded leaves
after a rain.
She laughs at some expression I make;
I have tried to draw her fingers on the form.
The next day we buy the requisite stamp,
lift the letter,
and wait.




2/14/91
GLS