Carolyn Hart

 

Aurora — An excerpt

for a thousand years, we had lived like this—cut us a cake.
wish.
i held my head in my hands.
what i had left behind—
the days inside my heart—
before i was born, i could see my father, through the trees.
why had he left the land that he was from—
the children's voices, in the room—
the hands around the clock face turned.
in damienne i could trust my words; my children's names.
why i had left—
in the place where i was from, a river flowed. men had fought;
bloodshed, leaves falling.
i kept the words in my heart; i kept the ring in a chest;
from her hair, for me, she had cut a strand.
i am reminded of the white lace dress and the ring —
the clock ticked—
my daughters' names
eva, asha and kara—
i wished to tell the story—
the pictures in his mind, no words could tell.
this story is for you.
damienne wished to turn the time back—
the rivers of blood to my heart flowed.
i never knew that to damienne my world would turn—
the globe spun small in my hand.
the story was here.
at last something began to grow, our daughters, this verse—
as a child, i never knew.
the depth of my skin, penetrated— stopped.
the spreading of the disease.
beside a river shiloh told me stories of the land he was from,
and how i could heal—
some kind of light i saw—
filling the room.
beside the river, i read; the book closed in my hand—
my hand covered his, without the white lace of the dress,
without the cake cutting into my dreams.
i had left behind the land that was my home—
beside the river shiloh read, turning the pages. tears fell—
the children he had left—
not knowing when he would see them again.
the story ends—
ours begins:
beside the river as shiloh read, he had wished for damienne—
when he was young, the place shiloh knew best was his home.
i wanted her to live—
make a wish—
blow.

 

 

Copyright © 2008, Carolyn Hart.

Carolyn Hart teaches at London Metropolitan University. The work here is drawn from an experimental novel in prose and verse.