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2409 Jefferson Street
Port Townsend, WA
360-379-1086

Laura Beausoleil

PLAY IT AGAIN, PSYCHE

In a recurring dream

my house has too many rooms

to remember what or who is in them,

whether anyone helps with the rent,

or whether the rooms need paint.

Some are locked, some empty,

and some I never bother to open.

Tired of it all, I want a change of address

and rush to catch the next plane to somewhere else.

But everyone in my house, except my two birds,

slows me down, each squeezing into my suitcase

what else I might need, until it’s too heavy to lift

and must be left behind.

The plane hovers like a UFO,

and aboard I discover that its

only destination is home, that is,

the island where I grew up.

Front Street always looks the same.

And there’s no one left I remember,

which in each dream brings me

seamless grief.

Then I lean sadly over the breakwater

where tonight three whales are swimming toward me,

who stop and talk from the waves.

They have, they say, a message for me.

The old folks who are gone

want me to know they are happy

living in my house, which is where

I must look to find them.

Suddenly, as I’m about to leave, there’s an emergency.

My birds, it seems, while following me,

have fallen into the sea.  I dive in, frantically,

and catch them in my fingers like a net

as they sink, pull them out, give them CPR,

dry their feathers, and return them to their perch

back in my house where they chirp wildly

how happy they are that we’ve returned

again in time for breakfast.

BEGINNING

I am a reporter,

witness to a bed

frozen over with

despondency

and a floating woman

whose heart it seems

rushes out her open mouth

and otherwise seeps

through her skin.

That great pliant muscle,

is a pushover, it’s certain,

a fait accompli.

The situation is now critical;

with winter closing in,

the doctors must warm her up

before they let her down

easy.

REUNION

The sky is a blue bridge.

I have wasted time

homing over brown water

and rusty ships

instead of finding you

on land.

And now it’s too late

to cross more seas

as you prepare to leave.

Yet somewhere out

in the wild white clouds

we are perpetually in love,

in resounding,

glorious flight,

with never a thought

of dying.