Tara P. Deal


Evening with the Ouija Board

The game begins with fingertips
kissing the teacup

thin-skinned, tight-lipped, and perfect
for cruising by at the faintest breath
of skittish nighttime smoke. A provocation,
and another version of a ghost
story slips out, transparent
as desire
(good luck)

because even with the lightest touch,
everyone touches something slightly

removed from what he really wants
to feel across the table, after dinner, here in the loveliest summer
rental, where

spirits have sunk
back into the woodwork,
the teacup returns to the cabinet, and now
it’s past time for contact with
the world beyond

abandonment.


Metalliferous

The silver solder like love that keeps
all the pieces together, yes,

slips, at such high heat,
on a sultry evening
into crevices

cracks unfortunately, rarely,
if bent out of shape,
mangled,
or mishandled

on the bench
by novices who think
such connections will never break

that everything flows,
too easy

even as chains and rings
split from fatigue
and another torch is lit,

more jewelry is needed.



Armour, Armoire

Some stash
their silk in fragrant camphorwood boxes
in closets. Some never say
what they crave
is to keep
one lovely golden weaving safe
from the sunlight, day
after day.

Sometimes a fantasy
of acid-free paper, lush and layered,

overcomes crystal buttons,
cracked bone, something
that one really wants
to hold onto,
that has a hold on
everyone

struggling
as always
with love
for more

bolts out of the blue
of blood-red brocade,
spools of baby-hair heirloom thread,
vintage paper orchids, German glass
hatpins and other
baubles forever.


The Romance of Travel

All those types
of palms are hard
for those who don’t care
to tell apart.
It’s the swaying that leaves
the impression
everyone’s fantasy is the same,
just before dark
when the silhouettes turn
to asterisks
astonished
at their references.