Katherine Soniat

Death and Transfiguration in the Wings

arrives in stages. In this dream it bears his face,
the mouth singing that nameless old melody.
I wonder if it’s Orpheus again, if this time
he’ll trust and wait longer.

Molecular notes from a head with no body—
this man, I once knew exactly, wears the mask
of another.

Study his lips, a voice says, this sort of detachment can
break anything to pieces.

The audience, motionless, lets their faces drop.
Night-bird cries from years away—
                                                       whippoorwill,
whippoorwill. Farmhouse on a slope where for a summer
it flew near our bedroom window.

Then there’s a jerk to stage-right where I’m in the spotlight
and naked this time on a toilet—the kind with armrests
and wheels you die beside in a soiled bed.  
                                                                So, it’s me on display
before the remains of my audience. Audience with the queen, I ask,
and they sigh, what a shame. I shut my eyes to go blind—secret
cove where no one ever finds me.

And late the next day, I am transfixed in real traffic, Alpine
waltz dropping from an attic window. A boy yells, hey lady, don’t
wait for your friend in the  middle of the street. Three-quarter-time
is the mystery of a world unaccompanied.

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