Friedrich’s Oak Forest

the sepia fog begins to move through gothic ruins
and ten monks walk in unison,
a procession of ink silhouettes carrying
a coffin into the abandoned abbey.
The one remaining wall tells me it wants to face west
toward dry German snow, while the shadows creep
quietly under the glow of winter solstice.
The skeletal iron shapes of windows draw an outline
showing me the pattern of a rose window on the ground,
the glass gone with cannon fire. Only a crescent moon shines
on the crippled gravestones nobody wants to visit
and slowly the paint moves, slides around the canvas,
blurring the forms of faith and landscape of this hidden place.

©Shannon Horlor

Burial

Such a long way to come
to read each stone, the celtic crosses
crumbling into soft ground,
unfixed and untouched
in the sun.

Finally I’ve seen
the village she was from
Hailsham, East Sussex, England,
One Victoria Road, the place my father was
born and the small red bricks
they left for prairie snow.

Such a long way to come
to read this eulogy for the last time
in front of strangers.
I expect to hear a bird or feel
the wind pass me by.

©Shannon Horlor

Once upon a time...

The Three Spinners

On her thighs, tall yellow grain shrieks her name.
She must spin, or learn to spin. She awaits
a book: How to Spin Gold. It is too late
for all that though. The miller’s daughter’s shame
unveiled if not for these three retched dames.
One fat thumbed, one flat footed, one’s lip eight
centimeters thick. They knocked on the gate,
offered special skills, grain to spun gold, came,
presumably, to rescue her.

But we
underestimate the quiet ones, blink
away wallflowers. Each woman drags
their dreams of a prince behind them in tea
bags. Dreams drip out, color their past loves, think
how does it pay to be an ugly hag?

©Shannon Horlor

Melancholy...

All Those Grandmothers

I can see my grandmother's face,
her wrinkles in the logs we walk by
on Island View beach.
If I kissed one,
the salt would sting my chapped lips,
remind me of grandma's favourite candies,
the black salted licorice babies
I hate the taste of,
and I'd rather kiss you.

The driftwood is bleached, the lines
darkened and deepened as it rolls
over and over. You say
we'll grow old together as we walk,
my hand inside yours.
The tide slowly covers the sandbars,
washing over my feet.
All those grandmothers
roll back into the ocean, aging,
break apart silently in the waves,
as you put your arms around me.

©Shannon Horlor

The Cinnamon Peeler - Michael Ondaatje

If I were a cinnamon peeler
I would ride your bed
and leave the yellow bark dust
on your pillow.

Your breasts and shoulders would reek
you could never walk through markets
without the profession of my fingers
floating over you. The blind would
stumble certain of whom they approached
though you might bathe
under rain gutters, monsoon.

Here on the upper thigh
at this smooth pasture
neighbor to your hair
or the crease
that cuts your back. This ankle.
You will be known among strangers
as the cinnamon peeler's wife.

I could hardly glance at you
before marriage
never touch you
-- your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.
I buried my hands
in saffron, disguised them
over smoking tar,
helped the honey gatherers...

When we swam once
I touched you in water
and our bodies remained free,
you could hold me and be blind of smell.
You climbed the bank and said

this is how you touch other women
the grasscutter's wife, the lime burner's daughter.
And you searched your arms
for the missing perfume.

and knew

what good is it
to be the lime burner's daughter
left with no trace
as if not spoken to in an act of love
as if wounded without the pleasure of scar.

You touched
your belly to my hands
in the dry air and said
I am the cinnamon
peeler's wife. Smell me.