I lit the candle, languid spark,
Faintest glimmer in the dark
Igniting wick of darling fool
That swims the ancient blood-red pool!
Come, dear child, hold bright the taper
Set alight this brilliant caper:
Where silken scarf unveils a curl,
Luminous roses, skirted, twirl;
Exuberant, taunts the central flame,
In ring-around-the-roses game!
Is it woman? Is it man?
Or just the gypsy charlatan?
Come close, my child, come taste my ware;
I bring sweet apples from the fair;
Strawberries and eglantine,
No other basket dare outshine!
Or is it First of April's ilk
Burning waxen mother's milk?
Falsetto's voice falls deep to shade,
Dissipating bold charade,
As laughter dim, through door ajar,
Lingers, mocking, jocular!
Now through life's mirror, unaware,
Burned flame's reflection, debonair
He gaily sipped on blood-red wine,
Strawberries plucked straight off the vine;
He cut the apple, sweetest slice
With sticky fingers, threw the dice:
Four times ten is what it read,
As round the roses he was led;
Throwing core to ancient wind,
He seized the candle, widely grinned,
To touch the flame, which burned my heart
The blistered joy of memory's part
Illumined with the glowing heat,
Mesmerized by etched conceit;
Come, dear sister, bring the chair!
Pull it quick, devil-may-care.
Loan me your scarf and flowered shawl
As laughing, shivers creep and crawl,
To once again see the fool
In waxen image on the stool!
Is it him? Or is it you?
I snuff the candle d‚j… vu!
Jennifer van Westrum