Poems

by Wanda Schubmehl

THE QUILTER

She ripped the faded fabrics
and observed how the pieces fell.

They made a strange design,
which frightened her.

She licked the bitter end
of the thread, and sucked it
through the needle's eye.

She was honest; she took the pieces
as they lay.

She called the pattern Chaos,
smiling at the paradox.

Stitch by stitch she sewed it.
She took no shortcuts.

When she finished, she spread the quilt
on her blank and staring bed,
lay down under it and slept.
Her dreams were dangerous.

In the first light of day, the yellow square spoke.
She snipped it from the corner,
leaving an empty space.

Night after night, she had violent dreams.
Each morning she removed the piece which spoke,
until there was just one block left.

She sewed the last piece to the skin
above her heart, and went out
into a clean and infant world.

She walked in it freely.
No one knew her.

MOON RIDER

A full moon hangs onto my car's half-
open window as I drive down the highway.
The moon is lonely, and tells
a tale of extraordinary virtue,
which I do not believe. Nevertheless,
it shines prettily, and is small enough
to fit into the ashtray on the door,
so I take it in, a cosmic
hitchhiker. Glowing there amidst
the empty wrappers of Juicyfruit
and Tums, the moon is giddy,
verbose, the moon spins yarns,
trying desperately to please,
to hold my attention by dropping
the names of stars, a little gossip
about the planets. I know
beneath the glitter, the moon
is crying. I have seen it hanging all alone,
stuck on the sky, cold, and repeatedly
being brushed aside by clouds.
So I let it ride awhile, until I make the sharp
turn toward home. One gasp, as if torn
from a hole in the throat, and the moon
is gone, sucked out the window
and flung once more into the vast
loneliness of reflection. Immediately,
the moon begins to disappear,
shaving off parts of itself, trying
to fit in, trying to find the right shape
for someone,
anyone,
to hold onto.

ABSTRACT WITH BLUEGREEN

you are the color of patience
the scent of bluegreen rises
from your words I have
no explanation
for the dreams of solitude
that gather in the corners
of your mouth you are
too transparent to be a body
no wind wears such whispery
shoes no shoes are necessary
for such luminous feet I see
spun-glass promises in the iris
of your eye your eye
which seems such a fragile house
for all that iridescence If I
could touch your crystalline face
who would I be after such
surrender what unbearable
thing would I learn
about the illusory nature of snow
and when winter fell would I
still know the language
that the air sings as you move you are
the color of patience
and the scent of bluegreen rises
from your words I have
too little understanding of rivers
so many rivers
run through your hair you are
a body of snowmelt water
where mountains peacefully float
I could submerge myself
for hours breathing through
a hollow reed watching
speckled trout swallow
the tied flies of your sorrows

Wanda Schubmehl is a therapist and poet who lives in Rochester, New York. She enjoys designing collaborative projects with visual artists and other poets. Her work has appeared in Poets for Peace; The Woman In the Mirror: An Anthology of Women Celebrating Women, 2004; Summer Songs: An Anthology From the Third Annual Gell Center Summer Poetry Festival, 2004; and is upcoming in Knocking On the Silence: A Finger Lakes Anthology, and an anthology of work by Irondequoit, New York poets.