The Cathedral

We have created these vaulted spaces,

vibrating with the immaculate and

tacit, the phi reflected in man. Musk

and incense, conduits of memories

embedded in bark and marble, hover

like cleansing steam in a Turkish bathhouse,

suffocating and blurring to inspire

pristine aspirations to the golden

unknown. The aurelian chiming, sapphire

light, all is gold, all is perfect, all is

curling in the smoky quartz of beaded

chanting, and Dorian moans entreaty

prisms from glass tableaus to bless the flesh

charred by transgression. The petrified bones

of those more perfect, their immaculate

clavicles and lunar ulnae, we place

them in the hearts of our altars, to pump

our salted blood, to offer up our souls,

to graze the infinite with flinching clay

Laura Roberts is a poetess that is dedicated to unfettered creativity.  To contact her about her poetry, send an email to lauraellaroberts@gmail.com.

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Ivolginsky Datsan: The prayer stone

My eyes close and I see the warm felt of the sun

The swaying strings of rainbow flags

The benevolent corner elephants

The spinning cylinders of whispered prayers

have condensed and darkened

Soft steps, sweetly tracing the path.

Somewhere, gravel scratches

beneath my shuffling soles

nearing the arch without me

My hair distantly stings my cheeks

but I float in the heat of stillness

One hand out, palm facing, bracing.

My chest hums of held breaths

of my one plea, unspoken, unbroken

Repeat the sweet colors that sweep to the sky

Tongue smoothes my teeth with unvoiced hope

My fingertips tasting the waiting stone

Connect to the flesh through the chant of dirt.

The sand has grown dissonant, and I am lost

My eyes exposed to sepia unceasing

My prayer is lost to a lonely glowing hand

I was too soon to return to the earth

My sight broke the spell of our union through stone

An inch between humming and singing.

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2:30 AM

I want the heavy shudder in my sleep

Pulse and breathe the thunderclaps

Shrink from the sky’s electric daylight

Cut from the forecast by the buzz of dark bulbs

I want to perch on the steps and ruffle my shirt

Squint in the craggy rain, sharp as sleet

Scoured by the haircloth of downpour

Clench the railing to withstand the wind

I want all the glass to quail before me

Hiccup and heave in the hoarse of storm

Rattling teeth in anxious waiting

The flaking bark that makes my fear almost real

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Car Troubles

floating to a halt on the highway

engine chokes my nose

Dick appears with wraparound glasses and cooling pizzas

I am corralled into the cab of a grumbling pickup

I am tethered to the bitch seat, surrounded by airbrushed breasts

Dick parks in a gravel driveway, frees me from the pile of fast food receipts

the men saunter from the porch to contemplate electric coils

white mannequin heads with drenched hair circle the decorative well

their eyes fixed on their interrupted necks

flawless painted heads, once attached to seamed, static bodies

transfixed and polished, seen, never seeing

When I shake Dick’s hand, I try to look through his sunglasses

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New Year’s Eve

winter night is street light sherbet

eddying crystals in shivering streams

sparkling asphyxiation of summer nostalgia

desperate wheezing shudders the frosted pane

these windows, they are hollow and gnawing

drowsy rows of suburban acquiescence

my curtains hover outside the creaking frame

the glass glowing alone on a block dark of wonders

the felt silhouettes of firs whisper handsomely

prickly and aching in the voracious wind

like the acres of anxious skin that wait

frozen, for your warm attentions