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Wendy E. Braun – This Existence

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Wendy Erin Braun

Soaking Sonnet

By: Wendy E. Braun

What thoughts quake so deeply in the mind
that time twists into geometrics
taking shape in the infinite patterns
of my bathroom tiles?
The hexagonal horizon suggests possibilities
while the diagonal plains shift into and out of focus.
But, yet, there is some relief
when the body is beneath the bath
and solid porcelain swells
like an impressionist whose brush swirls
between submerged reflections externalized.
If enlightenment is to come, I suspect
it will drip from my limbs in hints of lavender,
while discarded reveries slide down the drain.

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A Line From Neruda, “I do not love you except because I love you”

By: Wendy E. Braun

I do not love you except because I love you
I will not love another but do
because I am fickle and you are fleeting,
but not because you are on the coast of a rose water sea
where love dissolves from petals to pitch,
except in the instance of two passing ships
when you abandon your crew who cries,
“Do not give up the-” but you refuse to hear the rest.
I cannot say I know how it goes but I do not
love you except when standing on the moon’s
mountains of ash, catching your tide in the shift,
and I will blame the larks-leers for the poverty
determined that I must hide my love
in the renterfuge with pitch and ash above.

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1

The Glass Shattered Into A Universe

By: Wendy E. Braun

I sit in deep and solemn reveries
contemplating the bowl,
bowel and womb,
sucker for the void.

How many marbles
will divine a universe –
unsteadying the table
until the fall occurs –
break and fracture –
is there more?

Staring at the glossed surface
the beauty of porcelain
white corse beneath the crust.

You wonder at my fixation
knees curled, elbows flat
while you wait with a dustpan
ready to destroy the cosmos
spread before me.

I tell you, “I am God.”

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Although, time has passed

and seasons have come and gone,

like railway cars

whose late passenger stands

staring – wondering if it was in fact

a blown fuse that

stopped the clock and caused

the burnt toast –

he stands

on the same old porch,

surveying the need for yearly repairs,

while fingering a new cigarette

as the smoke swirls against his face

as his thoughts rise around

the what was,

the what never was,

the will she,

might she,

does she still, and

I think to myself

how thankful

I am that he

does not,

will not,

could not know

a damn thing –

something like smoke.

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