Daphne Sola, Two Poems

LUCK IS NOT A THING . . .

Luck is Somebody.

You can hear his bony toes clicking

as he rushes past

and when he decides

to hold still

merging himself into the landscape

he can still be discerned

by a febrile shimmer in the air.

You may think yourself well set

clinging to the sturdiest limb

of the tallest tree

but when Luck suddenly appears

below you

calling out, “Jump!”,

you scramble to your feet

let go of all the familiar branches

and with all the words

of all the books you have ever read

swirling about your head,

Molly Bloom’s are the only ones

you remember,

“Yes, oh yes!” on your lips

swelling your throat

and you leap out

not knowing if Luck is ready

to catch you in his arms

or only hold you for a moment

before he lets you

tumble to the ground,

takes an instant leap away,

his eyes on another,

leaving behind him only an echo of . . .

click

click

click

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THE POINT OF A KNIFE

Do you feel a pricking,

the point of a knife

under your chin?

Listen, Cock-of-the Walk,

you may take it

for an empty threat

but the hand that holds the knife

relishes fierceness

and will make you howl with pain and love

before sundown.

The hand that holds the knife

can also pluck a string

and oh, bonnie man,

you will dance to her tune

you will stamp the ground

until plumes of dust rise

and though you brim with denial,

welcome the dust

that clouds your eyes.

Grasp hands, then, and

move in blinding circles

glued together from waist to knee,

but, oh, rash and cherished boy . . . ,

no longer boy,

the prick of the knife is in the dance

that fires you

and shivers her,

a spark in an uncaring universe,

for all its brilliance

it is a briefness

that can only flame and die.

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Daphne Sola is a poet, an artist, a musician, and a retired gallery owner. She lives in upstate New York

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