another daughter of the light

Blonde as light was she the White Lady
Graves spoke of the reason for poetry
the angry goddess of the wheat, twisting
daily lives around the fingers of a frantic
hand? I don't believe so. I think it was
a Chinese handcuff; she didn't watch,
didn't know what time it was. As always
she was suddenly too late.
Suddenly stuck in a fingertrap, wondering
what he'll look like at forty0four. Was she
the Moon, then? Certainly divine, like
that dancer, was it Sarah? Who strangled
on her scarf in a fast car as it wrecked.
The problem in freedom is its applications ...
So Venus, or Ishtar, Demeter, or Harlow,
Mary Tyler Moore, Jan Brady. Who was she?
I know I know her from before.
A thousand years ago or maybe ten.
& does she even know?
Probably not, those doors are shut
& still.

This piece was written primarily about a woman named Julie Blomberg who I came to know through Mid-America Playwrights Theatre, Keith Kelley's group that I did many plays with in Springfield. Julie was in her mid-twenties and finally decided I was just too damn old for her. The ironic part was that she was dating a dentist at the time. He had a ton of money, but he really wasn't extreme enough for her. I know that later on she split with him and moved to Chicago. I was 44 at the time, of course. She wanted me, but she afraid of what that meant. Father issues.