N a p a l m H e a l t h S p a : R e p o r t 2 0 0 9

INGRID SWANBERG

Cazadero

a silence whitens between us

for the first time

my dress is the colors of the earth

you are sarcastic and pale

the trace

of your chaste caress

burns

as my father winds up the road below.

though you think I am a child,

I scorn your honor

in secret

with a woman’s heart

wraparound

I saw you wince

as my skirt fell closed,

the skirt that is like scarves

and swirls with a slight heaviness

as if it had lain out all night

and gathered dew

that look, crossing your face

swift shadow of a bird

as my skirt so quickly wrapped around,

the hem swinging a little the other way

revealing its subtle weight

that look gives me courage

as I tie the waist

forever

as far as you know

threshold

it started to rain

having nowhere to go,

we sat in the car

in the empty parking lot

rain drops strewn across the windshield

as you pulled the words

soft as kittens

out of the dark

all the while

idly balancing

the open switchblade

across your right hand,

starlight gathering liquid there.

some people have roots here

you said

rain drops streaming

down the glass

in each a sun

and worlds

Mother,

I thought I was done with your black bag

the one you could never find anything in

now in its far recesses I find

a gold watch

I have never seen,

the black leather strap aged soft

roman numerals on a black face

hands stopped at V:XXVIII

dirt and patina

the tongue is gone

I cannot read the tiny brand name

my eyes keep returning to the hands

as if they indicate some thing

I might understand,

the second hand frozen

almost at the hour

now it lies across the pile of letters

on the table

strange in the afternoon

sunlight

it gathers the room in

so I put it away

upstairs

with the other things

to be gone through

later on