Her Face Reflects
by Marge Simon

He carries her in his arms
through a sea of suspended ropes
that end  in hangman's knots
in the last dream she remembers.

She can  neither hear nor speak,
yet her face reflects the life she's known.
She's  the quiet one, the only one
who would not scream.

A courtyard breeze
condensed with messages,
memories of a night  ahead,
not all the same.

Once a young man,
and later, a battalion,
never touching  them
with more than a smile.

A being comes to her
guised in human uniform,
eyes dark as  nightshade,
musician's hands.

Youth has no single smell,
knows  no ordinary moments.
She feels  his fingers stroke
her mind as if it were
his instrument,
senses his  sorrow
as an artist knows
the color of anguish.

Father would love her now,
he'd write in his book how
she's  improved, growing
smarter every day.

He meets his colleagues
in the great room for brandy,
boasts how he  taught her to read,
tells them how he favors her,
his deaf-mute child with  copper hair.

Applewood and dust,
familiar signs at a crossroad
in the first  dream she remembers.
It is a good place to leave.