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R u m m y   P a r k

b y   R e b e c c a   L u   K i e r n a n

42.  New Clear Winter

The hanged man keeps swinging out of the tarot.
Mushroom clouds go floating by.
Everything is on fire now.
The sun is blotted out.
Can't see any of this
Waving from the ashes
Of our  leafy green park
Of bent willows, honeysuckle, heliotrope.
Have barbecued chicken in a white wicker,
Your mother's platinum ring in a gold box.
Bought a periwinkle house near a quiet volcano.
Our dreams are fireproof now.
The bomb has vaporized all our fears.
She wasn't created for reassurance
To sit apologetically in underground chambers,
Pretty maidens all in a row.
Everything is so much clearer.
Radiation brings painted colors to fruition.
Is it safe to laugh about the autumn willows?
Bent haphazardly just above the breaking point
Over out picnic chatter on hand-to-hand combat
The  november dusk you promised
Not to use the new information against me.

poetry & photos © 2006 Rebecca Lu Kiernan

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