All His Fancies Dancing

In his eyes a universe,
candlelight is such a color.
He confounds me, so few
wonders in this world.
There he sits, hand on chin,
staring into the flames.

There is a covenant
between my gypsy and her unicorns,
still as dust, darker than shadows,
they speak in tongues -

"Who are you talking to?" I say,
setting the tea tray down.
I fill his cup, add a drop of cream.

bracelets jangle
shatter the perfect silence
eyes like pewter,
the little white horses
dancing in her hair

"You wouldn't understand," he says.

She comes nude to my bed
and with warm hair and mouth
folds in on me ...

"Who is she this time?", I ask.
my fingers trace the curved arms
of my grandfather's favorite chair.
It is my chair. It is the only thing
I own that I won't surrender.

lovely Esmeralda,
lithe daughter of night and moon,
a comely virgin pure …

Tonight I see his gypsy,
her hair in mystic whorls,
the unicorns prance in her lap,
vanish within the chimney smoke.

I wait until he dozes off,
adjust his shawl before I go
with taper to an empty bed;
he sleeps so peacefully,
all his pretty fancies
dancing in the flames.

A fireplace to be cleared tomorrow;
would that I could do the same,
give my virtue to that soldier lad
I’d loved so long ago.

-Marge Simon