live if I did not go in search of
him. It was hard to leave
home with no hope of ever having
him for my own. Rumors
in the north sent me south to
seek for him on the beaches
of the Mexican Gulf. From Florida to Louisiana, I followed
the unmoving stars above us, both
and all. The Mississippi
was yellow and slow. Oaks there wore rags of Spanish
moss.
Whispers of his passage sent me
west where hot desert
convulsed into mountains. I missed him on a mountaintop
in the Rockies, but his footprints were unmistakable
in the snow. When I came upon the Pacific, I was
nearly
seduced by its windgnarled
palisades.
on the memory of a youth, his
arms hard as awe, eager
for my kisses, but shy of
congress? Oregon was far away,
its rocks and ways oriental to
the East Coast eye, and
my love had long before passed
by. Columbia was a rapid
river and mighty. Clowns and acrobats rode its banks
on donkeys that brayed with
delight. In a city in Minnesota,
I was sure to see him again. But I was too late and he
was gone. In the land of ten thousand lakes, on
every island
I found immigrants who had come
for political asylum.
In their native lands they’d been
imprisoned for activities
against their governments. Some had even arrived as ghosts.
In the Minnesotan woods they
shouted their blasphemies into
the deaf forests and yes, they
recognized me from my
photographs. Chicago and St. Louis were urban centers
where loud music came from
portable stereos and I was
mistaken for the law. Was my hope of him I loved so,
unfounded, I wondered as I
stumbled by an empty playground.
A fisherman gave me the dappled
portrait of a rainbow
trout he’d caught to eat. Faces and voices like his
kept me going. One night I slept in a field in
Gettysburg,
dreaming of wars past, present,
and future.
I saw the siloes of Iowa change into those
that hold most
terrible missiles. I saw my hands with others’ on a
barbed wire fence, but I couldn’t
tell which side we were
on. I saw those siloes as the future site of
wreathlaying
and speechgiving,
America’s concentration camps…
…Awoke, startled and shaking,
ashamed, and always sad
not to have dreamed of my lost
love. A Vermont friend
I hadn’t seen for years, whose
burned-down house had been
rebuilt, said my love had visited
without speaking of me.
I returned home, sore and unsure
of welcome. My son
was playing the piano as one
daughter sang and the other
danced. I am not emptyhanded though
emptyhearted.
Before I sleep I tell myself, I
may yet dream once more…
If he loved me truly even once,
he may come to me again.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
L. Shapley
Bassen
shared the following biographical tidbits with us: "2011 Finalist for Flannery O’Connor Short Fiction Award, is
Fiction Editor for http://www.
prickof thespindle.com/. (Poetry & Fiction) reviewer for Horse Less Press,
Small Beer Press, http://the rumpus.net/, Drexel U’s http://www.
leafscape.org/press1/, http://brooklyner.org/, http://www. bigwonderful press.com/,
Melusine, New Pages, Galatea Resurrects. The
Literary Life blogger http://www. sobriquet magazine.com/. Over two decades has been published/prize-winning
(poetry/fiction) in many lit magazines and zines (Kenyon Review, American
Scholar, Minnetonka, Persimmontree, etc.). Reader for http://www.
electricliterature.com/; 2009
winner of the Atlantic Pacific Press Drama Prize. (Audio excerpt at http://boundoff.com/ , June ’11) Prizewinning,
produced, published playwright (Samuel French https://www.samuelfrench.com/customer/profile
, ATA in NYC, OH, NC), and commissioned co-author of a WWII memoir by the
Scottish bride of Baron Kawasaki. (Audio 2 poems: http://2river.org/2R
View/15_3/poems/bassen.html)".
Bay Laurel / Volume 2, Issue 1 / Spring 2013