Dead Can Dance
willful and soft.
Is that you?
Where did you disappear to?
How many lifetimes
between one silence and another?
If only I could be there
lilting in your ear and dreaming
when you feel blue and red
is another color I could show you.
I choose not to believe
but to be inside your grace
and crystalline fortune
fanning out into the darkness
we both long for.
Donít wish me goodbye
I couldnít stand it.
The price of revelation is an aching
for which there is no cure.
Instead, inject me
with the unknown antidote of your love
and let me sleep.
PhotoMy brother and I squinting into the sun.
Skinny brown rails, thin limbed, hairless
but for a crewcut and a fine blonde down
stiffened with sea salt.
There is a hole in the sand behind us
filled with bay water, or a goby if weíre lucky.
My mother is there, leaning in, circa 1967.
The recent divorce is in her cat-eye sunglasses.
Itís in the paperback book
with its corners turned down in the breeze
she holds to her head,
a straw hat and a deep shadow.
But mostly itís in our hole in the sand
from which we looked up
into a brilliant sun.
The pose, say cheese!, the shutter,
we turning back to our hole,
a stranger trying to be our friend,
our future father,
putting the camera down, saying,
ďDo we have any chips?Ē
© 2003 Dan McCann
Dan McCann grew up in Southern California and now lives in Northern California where he works in web site design. He has had stories and poems published in Pangolin Magazine, Elk River Review, and Magic Realism. In addition to fiction and poetry, he has also done some screen writing including an adaptation of Dante's Inferno.