Michael Diehl, Sky Moon
pretend with me, just once
this was always the way it was supposed to be. the tall grass extends mother-like arms to cradle each step and the breeze holds the promise of everything sweet there ever was. we danced, once, with sunlight dappled on our skin, like there were little wires pulling our arms. like god himself whispered the steps into our innocent ears and all there ever was to do was dance. the wind came, and swept years through our fingers. pavement poured itself across the earth like a bruise, litter curled itself into the streets, and neon drowned out the stars but once, i remember we sat by the firelight, holding our breath to hear the hooves of deer stepping tenderly through the midnight leaves, our fingers laced through each other’s. once, before we were broken, when we were small and holy.
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Mela Blust
Review by Philip Kobylarz
all poems are paeans to desire, to inevitable love lost, if it were ever gained at all. this work captures the moment eternal, eternally. the wish that things will last forever, the lust for eternity, the desire of desire. for the poet, it all falls away, as no one can possibly love us in the same intensity that we love them. poets rarely marry poets. the first line is utter perfection of feeling. the puppetry of love. that one time we remember forever, that moment of perfection, that memory immemorable, . . . this poem.
Review by Zeke Sanchez
I’m not sure that onomatopoeia is the right word to describe Mela’s excellent poem. I liked the poem, but initially only recognized how the flow of the words sounded like the breeze itself, the comforting breeze. In any case, the use of the “s” sound in arms, breeze, holds, danced, once, skin – you get the picture – is very effective. Pretend with me, just once that we are safe, living in a world of tenderness with fingers interlaced. Could be a longing back to something akin to the Garden of Eden, or less prosaically to the womb. The poet references the pollution of industrialization as the wind “swept years through our fingers.” There’s a juxtaposition of the longing for an ideal world with a recognition of the real world.