SUBJECT>Epilogue: The Symbolism of Color POSTER>Laurel EMAIL> DATE>1109710972 IP_ADDRESS>156.77.108.70 PASSWORD>aaFRbor6/KzWk PREVIOUS> NEXT> 84078 84084 IMAGE> LINKNAME> LINKURL>
Epilogue: The Symbolism of Color
Not by the moon, nor with. Drunken,
and drinking it
in, this white light so pristine,
so virginal. The still river shimmers.
The current, irresistible, pulls
her out, pulls her down
a corridor absent of color. White =
the absence of color = the absence
of symbol? She always thought the obvious:
Heaven, when she was little; death,
now that she is big. Oh heavenly death,
oh deathly heaven, you are the pearl
that nooses her neck, the eye
rolled back that will not close, the halo
detached from her head, paler
than her casketed breast that no longer rises
with breath, that will never rise again. Drunken,
the boat rocks and takes on water.
Drunken, the moon sways, mouth open.
Like the drunk monk and the mad woman, she rows
and rows toward the white hole in the middle
She has no oars. Forgive me—forgive
this shift in pov—but even now,
I long to be swallowed. Fast asleep,
you won’t hear the splash, just the croak
of frogs telling each other the same lorn story
across the black pond. In the morning,
the boat will bump against the shore
and her ghost will float the surface color-
less as last night’s moon.