The first time in eight weeks,
eight weeks to the day, I've heard
the call of the mourning dove,
a plaintive attempt to crack ice.

And so it is, even now,
melting from the staircases.
I've traveled a half-circle,
as if I must follow the state of the moon.

There was a scent of spice'�nutmeg or ginger,
yet more exotic for being the gift of his skin.
I dreamt of cantinas in the light of Ibiza
and of Café La Boheme, Kings Road, London.

He was a gypsy, educated in Shakespearean verse,
Pre-Raphaelite art ' an escapee as well.
His Land Rover choked the afternoon light
with toast-colored dust.

Crows, hidden and silent, a host of black arrows
erupted at my feet. A field of white daisies
danced in arousal as if drunk on wingsound,
like innocents at carnival.

Our eyes finally met over wine, figs and cheese,
amidst the dust of centuries'�
cracked plaster walls, a distant shepherd's flute,
iron tables rampant with rust.

He said he admired how the wind had spiraled my dress, how
I'd clasped my straw hat as if
the crows had envious intent.


'Counterpoint, paradox'�
the greatest gift of life,'� he confided to me.
'Always the question, an answer is death.'�
He refilled my glass and fingered my hat ribbon.


Afterwards with wine, he fed me almond-paste pie.
My hat and dress lay abandoned on foreign tile.
He carved my heart with grace,
as if dissecting a fig. I gave consent drunk on spice.

Lusty nights, dusty roads, we cross-hatched
the countryside, consecrating ruins and awakening crows.
Hamlet drove, Ophelia languished like a Beatrice
finally ravished, the spice more heady than Rossetti's opium.

The awakening, months later
to the tune of South Carolina doves
and January cracking ice, sings only one song.
'Always the question. The answer is death.'�

Published in Asheville Poetry Review

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