“Not ours to own, like a book, but to be with, and sometimes
to be without, alone and desperate.
But the fantasy makes it ours…”
– John Ashbery, “Soonest Mended”
Vijinie, who lets my gold rush pour into her gorge ̶ the force!
she grips ̶ confessed our Falls frightens her. On the ledge
she stands back trembling at its unreversing One Way.
There is no observation deck. Closer to the edge outstretched
arms could wrap around our wonder of the world.
You could take a plane there, a honey moony day trip; or hike
through ego friendly rivers, knotted stillness; one last
snake tailing trail. Tourist brochures gloss the cascade
Vámos! which local scribes consider for book covers.
According to reports, Aliya, at 23 fragrant & unfeathered,
with a site tour party and a Korean couple, had seen
enough, was heading back; stopped, turned ̶ spark
burn ̶ dived in fusion, riding a silo beam straight up
our Fall 226 metres ̶ breath 226 in out?
The recovery team ̶ Army Officers, 12 soldiers, 3
civilians ̶ used a 1200 ft rope to winch the body
up the Fall side ̶ trip switch not found.
… In mem. Aliya Bulkan …
Suicides are not uncommon here; thwarted young
lovers use old sugar estate exits; usually they swallow
poison like Juliet, or password distress. Family grief
howls like Lear, and leaves messages. Newscasts cry
Horror! then break away for theorists in swim suits:
their stunts you wouldn’t believe.
In our Interior people hear voices . angels whispering
Come with us . spreading legends of the abyss ̶
the Indians who paddled over in sacrifice
to the Great Spirit who, they say, craves
star crossed slits and tenders sweet deals.
Vijinie, at 33 nymphish, back flips her All you Need
is Love tattoo, gold dust in hair wet. Her basin
bubbles until my down drawn loneliness hits rock
bottom. Her swirled pools send up a mist pillowing
rescue read rapture . making the dive splash free,
loss defying > Good gracious, 10 < perfect wonder.
– W.W.
LOVE AT LAST SIGHT
When some marvel fools the eyes it is the one
and final. When a love, lonely known
only as buried beneath distraction-stones,
lifts its head, shows its face – like the Sun’s
above the pale curb of night’s despair over
not being ever known for its stars
climbing and falling to disappear never;
like one such star’s arcing through the spheres –
to rhyming recognitions of eyes eager
for sharp surprises of the Other
no stranger but the reprise of the Sister
or Brother or Mother or Father
or other memory of angelic trust
– and even if trust was betrayed, cast
away, lost or unacknowledged like a ghost
too close not to be ignored, but
when it wanders off, an unattended cloud
of revisions needing to be read
– unless trust-blind lovers would lose for good
one last glimpse of love’s star unfaded.
(from “Within the Wind.” © Brian Chan )
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 