Gerald Stanek | Sighting…and Compassion


through twilight she moves
towards me
luminous gossamer
spanning the eastern sky

amidst thousands
deep in darkness
I crave her notice
but a call, gesture or breath
would disenchant

she is metaphor
one of myriad masks
embodied grace
radiating equally on all

yet I see my
not the

at last her gentle gaze
pierces my heart
I am raised

a clarion rings over the valley
someone’s phone flashes
on the effulgent departure

questions linger in your eyes
you ask of colored lights
broad wings

I shrug, shake my head
finger the feather in my pocket
and smile


Hepatizon, orichalum, Corinthian bronze
smelted, molded, mastered
what have I wrought
with pounding hands and head
a fancy hat, a mound of bolts
thrones and breastplates and arrows
automatons make cold company

Each day I add another link
a fine chain of forget-me-nots
through which she might feel
the beating of my heart
a golden gift
to keep her tied to me
the needed length is beyond calculation

I dare not cease this work
without her I am but a hobbled smith
bent, beaten and blackened as a slug

I know I am not the only one
all the immortal and the dead
are born of her breath

At her return we will not speak
the wheres and whens she has been
she would simply say she has never left
it is my own fury which blinds me to love and life

Were I to set aside my hammer
even for the space of a thought
I might feel
silken lashes flit across my brow
I might see
the parting of lips, thighs, heart
I might hear
a single syllable caressed

No matter the volume
desire, devotion, even gratitude
seems a poor exchange
for her etheric touch
by rights I should sever all ties
but my arm refuses to strike that blow

For though merely in the cave of the mind
her whisper is as a bellows
to the coals of my soul
thus does all slag and dark matter rise
thus is all squandered time redeemed
thus am I forged anew


Gerald Stanek

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