The Medium

Two poems about strange inheritances and the light that returns.

Sometimes a poem arrives like a small disturbance—
a strange image, a memory, something psychological that won’t quite settle.

You follow it, not knowing exactly what it means yet.

This poem began with that feeling.

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The Medium

Afraid, locked in his apartment—
ancient wood of Japan
wrapped like a dunce cap on the roof—
a choking boy on the floor.

Visions she named fluorescent green pull at him,
blocking his throat.

Approaching middle age, he is still a boy—
some stone pressed upon his head.

A mother wraps wounds she cannot heal,
for they are of her own making.

She sits upon cushions,
the tropical breeze a sedative,
furiously working love
like a medium into her paints—

a perfect color, vivid,
drawn from the last of her own youth,
locked inside a white case,
washed in fatty soap,
burning the tongue of a thief.

They drip upon the canvas.
But only there.

If passion ever lived,
it has since been washed away.

His savior—
her last breath.

On the telephone,
she uncovers some hidden life—
a psychedelic mushroom
grown in a dark, forgotten closet.

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Bonus Poem

Some mornings the poem is darker.
Other mornings the light simply comes through the window and sits beside you.

In Comes the Light Again

Here comes the light again on my book,
the words reaching across the page.

Between the shadows on my bathrobe—
bright and fading.

There’s the pen pointing upward
to the words “the title is,”
and I find them funny.
I love that I don’t have to title.

My God came in my window,
gave me a kiss while I’m writing.

It gives me more—
gives the window ledge a collar,
makes the trees look gentle.

You hate when the clouds roll in.
I can understand it.

Are you the light
that is always shining—
not because you haven’t seen clouds before?

Now the clouds are rolling away,
their edge blinding—
heavenly beauty.

Soft golden grass on the hill
like Rapunzel’s hair.

Cruel that a man could only reach her
by climbing
and pulling on something dead
but attached.

The story doesn’t fit,
isn’t as it should be—
or maybe it is.

In comes the light again,
holding a bit stronger.

I study it on my arm.

What is it about this light
coming in and out
like Tinker Bell upon the wall—

her bell-like sound
just the tinkling to work with,
caught in a jewelry box
with only a boy to free her.

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— Sarah Teal Axelrod