I crawl along the wet floor Of my mother's childhood, A serpent, or a long-buried secret, In my mother's bisque Chiffon gown with small stars Stitched in silver, a crown Of tinsel pinned into the dark Blonde knots and dreads of my hair. I follow a sequin thread of dead Things, stop when the moon clocks out,
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Hotel Berlin
In the rooms of a rundown palace
You said, Ruined. You said, Princess.
You said nothing to me
For three long weeks.
The color of that room
Is eel-black.
When I was a girl and still
German, I stood alone
At the end of the sea.
You may have loved me then
I sent a message through the cages
Of a great whale’s teeth.
For three weeks, I did not sleep.
I set jars of sweet milk and baskets
Of bright berries and red
Marmalade outside your door
In the dream
Where you come to me
I kiss your mouth
Tasting the secret
Letters of your history.
I swear
Somewhere in Siberia
A godly ocean of bison
Still roam free.
You, kneeling before me,
In this,
The last and final room.
Copyright © 2013 by Cynthia Cruz. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-A-Day on July 19, 2013. Browse the Poem-A-Day archive.
Copyright © 2013 by Cynthia Cruz. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-A-Day on July 19, 2013. Browse the Poem-A-Day archive.
Cynthia Cruz
Cynthia Cruz is the author of How the End Begins (Four Way Books, 2016) and Wunderkammer (Four Way Books, 2014).