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Her Thirst |
It always rains in movies
The Chandler streets of noir LA
Glistening and rippling with the fall
Of raindrops from the swollen sky
No palms and sun in this world
Of grey water.
Parched, our Lady of the Angels
Dreams of water, her river a dry
Gash, aching for mountain-born floods
To wash away the grime and the graffiti
To swell and sweep in a cleansing tide
Rushing to the sea. She shakes and
Trembles on her dry bed, moaning for
The water that never comes.
Or comes like a Hollywood tourist,
Barely here then gone again, never
Knowing the place, as much a phantom
As the city, back to Indiana, or to
The ocean, still a stranger.
So she dreams her arid dreams,
And sends forth her knights to wrest
The Grail of pure waters from the
Distant mountains. And her fevered,
Restless, yearning dreams
Before the cameras that are her eyes
Create a city drenched with water
But do not quench
Her thirst.
copyright 2013
Catherine
Berry |
