The structure of
Let’s talk about
the structure of
peace.
Let’s establish
its scaffolding
galvanized
iron, of course,
wrapped in leaves of
gold and platinum.
The windows won’t be
windows at all, but
waterfalls to distort
the view of the violent
world around our construction.
And in the universe, the blown
brown-flecked seagulls and
the heron storm so blue you
lose sight of the flying
to the coming night.
Forget about structure.
What peace would
have structure anyway?
It is fly and fly and a sudden
collection of winter
moths brushed up from
a pile of wet November
leaves because they see
the florescence through
office windows. And so they
gather there, their luminous flux
frozen to the glass, reminiscent of
a touch so tender it makes you
shudder. Let’s call that flicker
of recognition, peace. As much
as the flicker of Saturday morning
sunlight through the maple fire
red, orange, yellow, gray branches
through the panes of glass to moss-light
your bare breast as it rises and falls
like poetry,
like chaos,
smooth.
Melissa J. Varnavas is a poet, journalist, and editor living in Beverly, Massachusetts. A graduate of the Solstice MFA program at Pine Manor College, her work has appeared in the literary journals in Oberon, End Times, Blast Furnace, Margie, The New Guard, and elsewhere.
