Waxing Gibbous. Poetry by Lucy Dixcart

2


Unfinished



A seismic rumble strikes the solar plexus,
bores through bone. 
From the churn of cello and bass,
strings swarm the cathedral’s skies.
Rosin-fingered, a schoolgirl violinist
watches the boy, his oboe aslant.
These torn pages have an unwritten end,
yet she feels her whole life is here:
a flight of hummingbirds
underwritten by tectonic movements.
Decades later, while children dream,
she and he will hear these notes
electrify a winter evening. Suddenly alight,
they will find their former selves – 
like tumbling back through the wardrobe
to find no time has passed.


Waxing gibbous


Onto carpet, this dazzling
night casts a recumbent doorway. 
Shadow-she glides, crossing the frame.
Blotting her with my body, 
I recline, combining our darks
in liminal space. 
The tapestry above
picks out half-known patterns:
celestial assemblies loosely knit.
Unseen needles prick open every between.

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