Catherine Arra is a native of upstate New York where she lives with wildlife and changing seasons until winter when she migrates to the Space Coast of Florida. She is the author of eight poetry collections. Her newest work is Solitude, Tarot & the Corona Blues (Kelsay Books, 2022). A Pushcart nominee, Arra teaches part-time and facilitates local writing groups. Find her at www.catherinearra.com

Casting by Numbers

1.

The single line of my life loops yours.
We twirl, swirl possibilities,
tango-dip and tease, back-step and bow.

You tell me you first fell in love
with my words.

How we are made from the same 
dirt and ash.

Strawberry blood moon pulled you 
into me, standing alone on a rock ledge, a sentinel
for hope in the green-blue haze of falling.

You tell me how you wished
you had been there as witness,
to take the photo.

How you fell in love, right there
in that place and time, with me,
unerring and divine.


2.

A four-mile sunset walk, dusty blue,
a lavender bath and bed with your book
covering my breasts, your words.

I slept in silver rings of cicada song
and dreamed …

in the wee dark of daybreak,
you slipped into my bed, curled your length around me,
lifted me on top.

Wide-legged and ready, I slipped
my tongue between your teeth,
pressed my knees to your thighs.

How easily you found the passage,
the length of your sex slipping
into pink joy, delicious hunger.

We had waited so long, the crossing came fast,
a train having traveled in a churning clanking craze
through night, arrived at last,

a comet streaking Northern Lights,
taking us home. 


3.

Take me out of your mind,
be with me in life. Find me 

in everyday mornings and nights,
in touch and textures,

the surrender of skin.
At the breakfast table,

kiss my fingers sticky with syrup, later
we’ll walk the lake, my hand tucked in your pocket.

Be angry with me and forgive me.

Kiss me six times on a hike,
three times up and three down for balance. Six,

the number of magic, a mirrored C-clef,
a pregnant belly, the way we seed each other. 

Let me penetrate you, be with you in the space
you gave to addiction and bolted the door.
 
In the space you’ve always been alone.

Find me in the dark corner
you’ve been afraid to look.

I’m there, looking at you.




4.

My friends say to forget you,
too many obstacles. Say, beware

the danger of mirrors, illusions,
circus tricks.

Safe in their lives, they want me
safe in mine. I understand.

I say, I know he’s dangerous,
a snake charmer in a traveling show,

an elixir promising all and nothing,
but I will enjoy him in rings of lion fire

for as long as I can dream
and still wake.

They don’t see how
dangerous I am for you.


5.

Love is dangerous.


6.

Six, the number of magic, a mirrored C-clef,
a pregnant belly, doubled threes,
the way we could have.

Three, a dangling modifier, a half-cleaved heart,
a sum that doesn’t add on the last day of August, 
a three and a one that turns away

when wind strums treetop leaves
into sounds of rippling water,
tumbling pebbles, and the email link
to your archived poem surfaces like a dead trout.



7.

Seven rhymes with heaven, where
stars bridge six and eight, a stairway
of dream spells & incantations,
to where we seek and hide in clouds.


8.

The lemniscate, ouroboros,
the way love disembodies you.

The algebraic geometry of loving
past points of no return.

A lens wide-open
dizzy with sight.


9.

Three six nine, the goose drank wine …
Clap slap

I know I’m a number on a list,
a notch on a belt, certain not to trust you
for all your seductive empathy,
recycled verse and verisimilitude. 

I know you’re still an addict,
mainlining fantasy as flimsy as fairy dust.
I will not be your secret, your muse, another host
to feed your yearning in a safe, married middle-class lie. 

I will dig in dirt, plant deep blue salvia
nursed from a broken stem, give it 
water, mulch, and every chance
to grow, to bloom again next spring.


10.

Love is dangerous,
unerring and divine.