Zelda

Last night I held

a little girl

I’d named Zelda

and dressed her

in the Jazz Age

way.  She was

a beautiful

little fool

that left for West

Egg with cellos

in the background

stringing along

the wrong song.

I held her

to the night

where she became

the space

between stars

and I held her

higher against

the moon where

she became hollow

and I saw a

woman waiting

inside.  

She is the

iceberg drifting

around me,

I can’t see

most of her.

This is the peace

that jars me,

this is the

chronology

of a slow fade. 

The distance between

truth and lie

depends on who

I tell it to. 

The distance

from lost

to tossed

depends on if

I’ve let go. 

These are things

of which

I know

nothing and find

myself  speaking

with conviction.

This is my

name in her

Book of the Dead.

This is quiet war

where a man

of ash moves,

where only

I get hurt

if I do it right.

Art courtesy of  http://www.red-letterimaging.com/