Oct/Nov 2000 Poetry |
Seasons After Sara
I
When winter spins I will have forgotten
how the other cheek turned, sharp left,
jaw hinged, your lip a riot ready to cinder.
My mind will not falter even with your eyes
all glitter more winter than snow,
certain of ice and a color, exactly joy.II
When spring returns I will not remember
the sound of your name, a single song
or slight breath, I will curl my fingers
through each season no longer your waiting
concubine, your scent will become
nothing more than a forgotten daffodil.III
When summer calls I will have tired
the moment, dried it upside down
with the heather in our kitchen,
I will become a shred of sun in a half
eaten sky, dangle my way into the fall.IV
With autumn I will have braved my own
tongue, placed a feather plucked from the wing
of a crow behind my ear, I'll tattoo a howl
beneath my quarter Indian eye, one blink
and two nods before I shuttle another season.
On Searching For Mother
"Further up, my darling, the woman
is calling her secrets, little houses,
little tongues that tell you." -Anne SextonI have her incestuous eyes, yet
my smile is not as bold
my voice, one less cigarette.She's lean as a sapling, legs
a wilder forest etched in the lower
branches south of her waist,a plum pit of secret.
I am a summer behind her fruit
blossomed out of season, a window
ornament in my Sunday dress.The bed is quiet, I am starved.
Her voice frightens me, Stringbean
mommy, soggy thumb, a thirty-four
year old girl pressed against
my chest, her weight gigantic.Her hands make me nervous,
the way her fingers curl, move
around me, the forgotten child.I beg her to return to the mother
I adore, the one with her back
pressed to God's calling on winter.Her voice a mettle of words,
"Goodnight moon forever,
goodnight house."
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