Bougainvillea

Scant memories of wine-swept hangover
misted into new daylight.
The residue of fermented dreams
still sitting on my pillow.
Though I remembered the dream
and the swift descent of bare feet
stepping into a clouded courtyard
of smooth marbled construction.

Tall columns stood sentry
smothered by woody vines
of magenta-blossomed Bougainvillea
and thorns, too many thorns.
Loathing intrusion I crept forward,
wondering what I might find.
Suddenly the clouds folded into themselves
and the pale sky overhead began to bleed
ruby-blue raindrops of regret,
each one falling in slow motion across my vision.

Wiping eyes I see her standing there,
still clutching the blue steering wheel
of her Lincoln Continental. And the -words-
"...near transection of the superior vena cava..."
swirl themselves into the wind, across the courtyard
to hang, dangling amongst the thorns.


© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar