Poems by Rose Mary Boehm

 

Lady Buddha

She folds me into her enormous arms,
squashes me against her mighty breasts
until I breathe only her essence.

Shimmering fish shoot here and there among the palms,
the air soft and sweet with playful honeysuckle
and a touch of frangipani.
A blond child leans forward, touches my hair.
I recognize my face, the one from the official
school photo, and we clap our hands, laughing.
Trying to tell her that I can love her now, I open
my mouth to speak but only warble like a canary.
In a huge and secret walled garden, I see
hundreds of people I know, people who left a hole
in my life. They have become strangers in a familiar way.
Studying a sepia photographic print, they look at me,
satisfied that I am the one they invited.
We look up to watch whales floating
like barrage balloons casting occasional
ripples of shadows over us until
we float up too, holding hands, giggling with delight.
Far below a turquoise sea. A wave reaches up,
inviting us to slide down on its cool, glass-like back.

The Buddha opens her arms.
I am shivering in the early morning light,
unlatch the door to my world.

 

The Blue Unicorn

Ever since it didn’t happen,
there is an unfinished, an unborn
shimmering shadow in my heart
that sees with my eyes,
like stars breaking black space,
swimming up to see
what I see, small, wispy
hands trying to hold what I hold,
seeking a sense of solid,
she moves in me and I in her;
we are forever bound by
our flesh and our expectations.
When they ask me:
‘How many children do you have?’
I betray her time and again.

 

Momentous

Years of expert cuts in his scalpel,
the miracle of death.

The ‘accurate’ bomb falling on the field,
            the tank’s shells missing their target.

A baby goat in my arms,
            headbutting me with soft white nubs.

My Opa showing me how to build a dam
            in the brook by the faery trees.

Sunrays squeezing through the pines
            swaying with the dancing foliage.

A gentle wind caressing my face,
            lifting my hair, drying my cheeks.

My mother’s heavy tread on the stairs,
            a bucket full of water in each hand.

Father’s silhouette against the evening sun,
            his thumbs in his waistcoat pocket.

My children forgiving their parents’ sins.