d.a. levy
(10/29/1942 - 11/24/1968)

angela
by d.a.levy

1/

the wall
            forms
pink ribbons
in your black hair
                            curls
and chatters
like a sun
                of cloves
                and saffron
(you buried an eagle
on Italian slopes)
the wind
            at your side
is a trumpet
of black wood
                    echos
                    and eagles
fly at dusk
(i buried a sparrow
everywhere)
the telephone
                transforms
your voice
to black poppies
                burn
                and blush
like a sparrows cheeks
(we buried the past
with coffins and cloves—
on sleepless nights
there is nembutal)


2/

the piano
                is dark
grained
like a spring night
and nothing but the
                    sound
of a blackbird 
                    remains
in angela
                angels
are black magic
                and mournful
as if
the teeth
                of the ocean
                are singing
(you are too much
                whiteness
                for evening)
the black trees
                in sunlight
become orphans
                of winter
                and warm days
leap into our 
                        breezes
but you are snails
                and blue water
                and unexpected
postcards smile


3/

if i could pretend
                you
                were Malaga
or Mirages and black alleys
but your pierced ears
                are not
                Andalusian
& i have traveled
                your streets
                loving you
where you are white
                as poppies
                and veined porcelain
drowned in sable
                and shadows
if i could 
                scrape you
from my skull
but you cling
                    black
like a nightengale
                    sings
& i have followed
your lines with
                        a poets eye
                        in Puerto Rico
i will be the sun
and devour you


4/

it is strange
                    on days
like sunflowers
                    have
black stems
                and waver
(why? — Lisa fell into her
ice cream cone and bruised
her arm)
in a few moments
                of silence
                we form an arch
over the ironing board