Oriana IvyThe slant sword of Orion, three stars,
winter-bright, as though unsheathed from distance and the dark; the plumes of palms and eucalypts against the indigo of night; and to the south, the trembling white, yellow and orange lights of Mexico. And childhood touches me again, when foreign meant exciting. I love it, I almost say out loud – wondering if I could leave it for a man with a luminous spirit. Which exile should I choose? Oh child . . . our tragic flaws choose for us, to which we are blind. The lights on the mesa quiver, and I nod: here is my fortune, chance, the black plumage of palm trees my wealth. So many lights! Some garish and some dim; some shine on misery, dead dreams like a body shattered by a leap. Time the Hunter and his bright Dog move on. Only we stand still, immigrants approaching port, our precious, useless past in our arms. Ludicrous, the luggage we take, the old photographs. The future will be exile, a new world. Along the shore of night, like spirits of ancestors, the lights. |
