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While she uproots blooming irises from the backyard Where they grow for no one And brings them to the flower bed next to the road, Gusts of wind and sun blind her and make her feel
lost. She digs with her fingers to feel the reality of
soil Not as harsh as the pain of letting go Or as otherworldly as the bird’s nest which She knocks over with her shoulder. But she looks for that softness and warmth That will be a sort of home––after death. The father wobbles in his sandals towards the flowers Thinking of the image of his heart on the monitor–– A muscle the size of his fist flickering with the
weight of light. She plants a row of irises on the side of house
and he smiles At fragrant violet and white petals unfolding: “In July we’ll have gladiolas and next year Let’s get lots of colors, lots of colors.” She tells him that the peonies and geraniums and
roses and lilies Grow so strongly it must be a good sign: he will
get better, she says. This is the hour when there is only time for Delicate colors around the gray house, the locus
trees in the yard From which they take armfuls of blossoms and bring
them in And fill the rooms with white scent of blown spring. |
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The bells follow each other and respond with Last night’s conversation and almost incidental Kisses you waste on my mouth like table wine. “Love me or hate me but don’t just like me” you Say tragically like one who has seen how it all
ends Almost like death and like birth of pain at once. So thins morning finds me sleeping in the little
cave You made in the center of the bed, just as you
say: I love you with the penitence of solitude and horror And I will give nothing beyond these words which March and beat themselves against towers and air. Let Sundays parade like women on the dance floor You tangle with on the way to me: beautiful, careless Utterly dumb and deaf to what you are afraid to
give. |
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A shadow wrings her hands in a room full of light. She lives in the possible palms of a lover–– How they made a violin of her body in his attic
flat And how morning arrived clear with loss Like a knife slicing kisses. She recalls the resolute music of sheets and limbs Entangled in what has no name–– A spell, she thinks, destroyed with words. This October wind comes through the window Like he does––uninterrupted, caressing–– And vanishes the same, yet leaves Invisible traces of love on her cheeks. He will permeate her like absence Until she will disappear at evening–– Without reproach, unshadow, unself And not alone, once again. |
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Wet leaf slapped itself against the glass, You turned directly to
my mouth in the crowd Then slid down Lowered yourself to my
waist Leaving the mark of its
width along the window. Until, transparent, I
bore your kiss on my belly. |