" Auntie (Dances with Light) "
Every night, you dance
with the light from the streetlamp.
I cannot keep you locked in your room,
but soon I will have to think of such a key
as you wander in search of your soul.
I cannot haunt each midnight
watching you run into the avenue,
slippers flip-flopping,
nightie billowing,
hands raised to the almighty
glow of lamplight as you jig about the corner.
The neighbors have long since stopped talking;
now they nod in sympathy for me, at me,
behind my back --
What shall I do with you, Auntie?
I would love to tuck you into my pocket,
or hang you about my neck, secure in a
locket, or braid you into my hair -- anywhere,
as long as I could feel your weight safely near.
But I must be content with feeling your arms
around me as you whisper me songs.
I must be satisfied with your toothless grin
when you see me coming down the hall.
What shall I do with you, Auntie?
I'm afraid you will leave me
when you decide its time to dance
with the light of the universe,
and the universe is so far from the corner.
© 2003 Marie Eyre
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