Andrea Moorhead
Through the Night Window
Settling down to sleep, a wing, a cloud, a wisp under the pillow, stranger than any story read at bedtime years ago, plunging into the blue pages, green spots on the words, shimmering periods, exclamation points, and the rose-amber question marks, while she read slowly, watching something out the window, a passing car, a cat, perhaps a neighbor bringing in packages, and her voice rose above a whisper, filtering out stray sounds as she followed the sentences, cobalt window panes, iron doors, the long stretch of desert sand, it was nightfall and there hadn't been any snow on the high peaks, we're wandering off the page, and I'm settling down to sleep again, a wing, a cloud, a wisp under the pillow, floating flecks of down, and dreamland doesn't have the sheen of those lost pages or the silken tones of her voice rising and falling, turning the pages as we waited for sleep to come.
Morning Rituals
She turned the pages slowly, almost cautiously, each rectangle of paper slipping behind her fingers. A green breeze at the open door. The woods are cool today, laurel in bloom, oak pollen, the hint of ocean sun through the leaves. Each page slowly, with caution, each line of print distinctly encountered. Lingering smell of toast and coffee. It's been a long morning, with the breeze at the door, the woods in bloom, each new shoot adding to the confusion she cannot dispel. Turning the pages hour after hour, time slipping behind her fingers.
Gathering the papers
One page stands out, not for its content or even its crisp appearance. It's the worn edges, the softly softened corners of the paper. Never in the same place, sometimes after the opinions, sometimes before the book reviews. She never found the editorial page all that interesting, she could have written those articles, perhaps she had or we had assumed that she intended, but one page remains perplexing, outside the rubric of politics or books or fashion. The paper carried a faint watermark, a gentle impression-indentation in the fibers. From her fingers, perhaps, or the weight of dreams pressing against the page.
While writing to my grandmother
Too much wind
the page never clears
there’s ink splattering onto your hands
crows’ feet on the wooden surface
pages flutter as if feathers
and your memory never tires of
the apricot perfumed plains
somewhere behind sleep
in the long lake winds
violent waves of passage
trees have shifted again
and your words collect like snow
Niagara Escarpment
Black apricots on the ground
corona still amber-rose
the frost came early
while the winds were blue in summer rain
steel arches on the opposite shore
a showering of sparks from an unknown source
peeling the wind won’t help
your eyes are sealed
your tongue glowing
strands of shell beads where the fruit lies
an altar without wings
cracked open on a summer night
Andrea Moorhead, born in Buffalo, New York, is the publisher of the prestigious international magazine, Osiris. Her most recent book is The Carver’s Dream (Red Dragon Fly Press). Her poems have appeared in journals such as Abraxas, Great River Review, The Bitter Oleander, Phoenix, Poetry Salzburg Review, and elsewhere.