Hedy Habra

Or Who Would Have Expected Us To Leave That Way?

            After The Juggler by Remedios Varo

 

We decided to skip the afternoon bus ride

and sneak out through the convent’s main gate

guarded by the twin Sisters.

 

As soon as the hunchback nun turned around

to answer her stuttering twin’s call from inside

the parlor, we jumped in unison

 

out the first floor’s half-opened window.

We barely caught our breath till we reached

the town square.

 

We knew we couldn’t remain unnoticed for long

in our gray uniform. At the sight of the juggler,

we stood, mesmerized.

 

His hands handled fiery balls in elliptical

trajectories bringing forth the movement

of stars and constellations.

 

The same energy flowed through our body

as we held hands tightly as though a single

cape enveloped us.

 

 

First published by The High Window

From Or Did You Ever See The Other Side? (Press 53 2023)

 

 

Riding the Winged Tricycle

When Saturn’s three crescent moons enter

their wild dance, I see myself riding

the winged tricycle of my youth towards

an open nave that grows into a caravel

flaunting my winged effigy on its prow,

a figurehead that appears as the centerpiece

of a gilded triptych while concentric dark

brushstrokes around my wide-open eyes

 

convert me into a revered icon, glowing

crescents hover above my head, halos

inscribed within the alignment of Orion’s

three stars, ominous signs tell me that age

is but an illusion, that I can ride that small

bike, soar, heady with my childhood

dreams, dizzy with the illusion that past,

present and future come together at once.

 

 

First published by Anima Methodi Anthology
From The Taste of the Earth (Press 53 2019)

 

Waiting in a Field of Melted Honey

 

I am waiting in a field of melted honey, hiding behind a blue tree that is not really a tree, a root Vincent chose to paint as a tree, you know, the painting where roots are the size of trees, gnarled trees with severed limbs, sterile against the golden field swaying, the tall grass bending, and of course no one can tell, but l feel the wind too, swelling my blue-flowered dress, you won’t see none of it, for I am behind the huge roots that look like trees and you can only feel the wind in the brush strokes.  You will mistake my dress bulging on the side for a knot as if I were a distortion of the oversized joints, leaning against the bark as if against one of his fingers, my space so restricted I can barely move. 

The master knows I am waiting for him, eyes filled with the beauty pouring from his vision.  I know he will take these roots and me with them, trees growing into rising clouds at nightfall, and he will show me the city lights everything around us becoming waves of light.  When he remembers me, the tip of his brush releasing me, I will tell him how hot it was behind the root that was like a tree, how the bright rays made me dizzy.  He will take me into his brush, cool me down with linseed oil and in another field show me the evening sky. I come to life again, but no one knows I'm here, the gold of my hair, the blue of my dress broken into lines, narrow paths of color spiraling among the stars on a warm blue night, the moon and the sun becoming one and I and him, the field and the sky circling endlessly.  I feel the ripples of the wind, the ocean's foam, my dress flows domelike, its flowers brighter and brighter, I am everywhere, hear our voices and you now understand what lies in each swirl, your life, mine, his, together in the dance of the stars.

 

First published by Puerto del Sol

From Tea in Heliopolis (Press 53 2013)