luxe poetique

I want to wake
to a poem on my tongue
like Himalayan salt
on a sliver of truffle
effervescent verse
that lifts me
from these shopworn
clobbering times
like Veuve Clicquot
in crystal flutes

I want to walk
with a rhythm in my bones
like Thelonious Monk
befriending dissonance
through sybaritic street fests
where the roasted yam
and sweet corn waft
like silken threads
around the lovers
who’ve forgotten
all they know
of politics

I want to sail
on a schooner named for me
through Adriatic breezes
for the joy of overturning
the misnotion forged by masses
disenchanted who
think cringing
is heroic
and that constant
anniversaries of past suffering
bring us anything but more

I want to fly
with caravans of djinns
transparent beings born
of flame, light-headed
never fossil fueled
complicit in the comet’s arc
indifferent to the myth
of dust to dust

and when my ashes
coalesce with all who congregate
in halls Valhallic or Brahmanic,
shamanic, histrionic—take your pick—
I shell scatter luxe poétique
through the coral ululations
of the dreamer who hears
oceans when he wakes


© Elaine Stirling, 2016