Tonight's Poet Corner: The Ethereal

The Ethereal
by Belinda Roddie

The Ethereal wore a waistcoat,
so corporeally red that it was life force
pulsating, rather than bleeding outward -
the sustenance sustaining, not depleting,
ebbing and flowing like a preserved tide.

The pocket watch she bore changed colors,
so that based on the hour of the universe (and
hour is a term used very lightly here, with
copious amounts of interpretations), it could be
brass or gold or silver or even metallic blue,
the sea coated in rust spewed
from pronged chimneys.

"You could use a fork," she told me,
gesturing at my plate, which hadn't even been
touched by the pale skin still clinging to the
reminder of my youth. And one by one,
the cherry tarts seemed more palatable,
and I felt at ease - not desired to feel calm,
but simply was calm, as if my mother had
come into the room and offered a
plate of homebaked cookies,
to keep the nightmares appeased.