| THE LORELEI SIGNAL |
.
| Written by Jessica Wick / Artwork by Lee Kuruganti |
| Make a donation to this writer |
| Virgin and the Unicorn |
Look at her.
Look at her.
Two fine arched eyebrows race to meet,
but never do.
They diverge, and frame the eyes
which are the color of the lightless hills
which are the color of the water's shadows
which are an antique
lightless brown.
This is an old picture.
This is an old story.
The hills are dry as tinder;
scrape a match on any rock
and they will rise to tear
down the wall
with ruddy hands of fire.
See how the wind combs through the fields
to shake gold loose from the grain.
But the gold is dim and the fields unmoved.
They may shiver, and the water, too,
but age doesn't tremble from its purpose.
Forget it.
Forget it.
This is an old picture.
This is an old story.
As fair as fair, they said she was:
As fair as fair is fair.
But beneath the bolt of linen wound
she wore a crown of dirty gold
woven from her hair;
at her forehead, a blaze of white
where the light fingers. The line of her
tanned mouth is as brown as the water
and the hills
and her fine arched eyebrows.
This is an old picture.
This is an old story.
Her mouth is in the middle of a smile.
The cat watches birds in a distant great house.
He is in her arms. He is in her hands.
His beard is a lick of white at his chin
and his wide eyes are ringed in white
and he is the vanilla of old bones, cleaned
with cracks running down his hide to break
upon the dimpled flank.
The twist of his tail
is like the twist of the ford.
There is a sudden white of water, by rocks,
but the world is an antique
and tinder-dry.
This is an old picture.
This is an old story.
He is in her arms, a leg hooked over her knee
held between her thighs,
the cloven hoof curled inward.
Another leg stretches across her lap.
Her left hand is at his throat,
her right at the base of his neck,
caught in a stroke. His teeth are bared
and he twists his head to the side with wild, wild eyes,
while his back legs crouch goatish and ungainly
and, an arrow, light glances
across his side.
He would rise if he could. He'd rise like a horn
pointing heavenward. He quivers,
completely still. Did he run to her?
Did she catch him?
What does he see over her shoulder
in the middle of her smile
that causes him to shrink?
Look at her.
Two fine arched eyebrows race to meet,
but never do.
They diverge, and frame the eyes
which are the color of the lightless hills
which are the color of the water's shadows
which are an antique
lightless brown.
This is an old picture.
This is an old story.
The hills are dry as tinder;
scrape a match on any rock
and they will rise to tear
down the wall
with ruddy hands of fire.
See how the wind combs through the fields
to shake gold loose from the grain.
But the gold is dim and the fields unmoved.
They may shiver, and the water, too,
but age doesn't tremble from its purpose.
Forget it.
Forget it.
This is an old picture.
This is an old story.
As fair as fair, they said she was:
As fair as fair is fair.
But beneath the bolt of linen wound
she wore a crown of dirty gold
woven from her hair;
at her forehead, a blaze of white
where the light fingers. The line of her
tanned mouth is as brown as the water
and the hills
and her fine arched eyebrows.
This is an old picture.
This is an old story.
Her mouth is in the middle of a smile.
The cat watches birds in a distant great house.
He is in her arms. He is in her hands.
His beard is a lick of white at his chin
and his wide eyes are ringed in white
and he is the vanilla of old bones, cleaned
with cracks running down his hide to break
upon the dimpled flank.
The twist of his tail
is like the twist of the ford.
There is a sudden white of water, by rocks,
but the world is an antique
and tinder-dry.
This is an old picture.
This is an old story.
He is in her arms, a leg hooked over her knee
held between her thighs,
the cloven hoof curled inward.
Another leg stretches across her lap.
Her left hand is at his throat,
her right at the base of his neck,
caught in a stroke. His teeth are bared
and he twists his head to the side with wild, wild eyes,
while his back legs crouch goatish and ungainly
and, an arrow, light glances
across his side.
He would rise if he could. He'd rise like a horn
pointing heavenward. He quivers,
completely still. Did he run to her?
Did she catch him?
What does he see over her shoulder
in the middle of her smile
that causes him to shrink?
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