MY MAMA'S WALTZ
By Timothy Pilgrim

My mama’s waltz
(with a nod to Theodore Roethke)

The perfume on your dress
could drive a young boy crazy —
dark lust, secret untold since —
our nightly ritual, flow and bend.

We whirled from room to room,
circled smooth and tight,
each turn, our pas de dux,
much spinning out of sight.

You waltzed me back to light,
my face against your dress,
dizzy with each pass at dusk,
clinging, waiting to be blessed.

Shadows softened at the edge,
Lord’s absence soon undone,
you waltzed me off to bed,
watched me kneel, pray again.

Deja vu tridundancy

Look back — at you, silent,
quiet on path, peering behind

as sun lights forest -- trees,
clumped, rooted, branched.

Meadow before, open expanse,
grassy, wide, vast. Stream, still,

wending, twisted brook, placid.
Creek, glassy, sinuous, flat.

Banks, all, spongy, soft, dank.
Listen closely, strain to hear

inner voice — soft query, whisper
to yourself, question murmured

where you're going, headed, bound.
Deja vu etiquette forbids reply,

response, re-ask. God hints again,
Be still, looking back.

About the Author:

Timothy Pilgrim, Bellingham, Wash., is a Pacific Northwest poet with several hundred acceptances from journals like Seattle Review, Windsor Review, Hobart, Windfall and Third Wednesday. He is author of Mapping Water (2016). His work is at www.timothypilgrim.org