Oratory

Princess

A little girl up she grew
in a valley bowl of sky;
a Heidi in white snow
with grandfather and goats.

She slept beneath a cloud
of milky stars and whirled
into a Dorothy wind. Up
& up she flew

into the arms of dwarves,
into a crystal crypt
and a forest made of thorns.
She climbed a rope of hair

up to a giant's lair. Hand
in hand with Hansel, she
clicked her heels and fell.
And fell. And fell. And fell.

   

Raven

Red

in the copper urn
in the beaded purse
in the maple, the cherry
      turning
in the african belt
in the bentwood box
in the goldfish
      swimming the chilling pond
in the persian rug
in the porcelain bowl
in the photo of judd
      dancing with scarecrows
in the hopi drum
in the monster's mouth
in me, in me, in me

 

Remember Me

Remember me, you said,
engraving your image onto my skin.
You taught me to carve myself
into knives, to sharpen my edges
against the ones I love.

Remember me, you said,
crawling into my belly like a stone.
You rolled up behind my eyes
so I see your face reflected
in the faces of the ones I love.

Remember me. 
I will cut a cavern into myself.
I will slice you out, out.
I will take this stone of you
and carve it to mark your grave.

Remember me. 
I will carve myself like ivory.
I will rub my edges smooth
against the ones I love.
I will see their faces clear.

Beware, daughters;
take heed, sons.
Bury your fathers
in their own graves.
Dig them out of your bodies.

   

Richard and Judd

Today, at the market, a middle-aged couple, squeezing
tomatoes. They remind me of you, one gaunt, grey,
with sharp cheekbones; the other large and reddish.

I remember you exiting the plane at the Missoula airport,
both in huge fur coats, New York queers and proud
of it. Christmas, and you two glittered and grinned

brighter than the trees. I wish I could tell you, again,
how you filled up my house with your games and quarrels,
and how I miss you now, all the empty corners. Every day

there is something I wish I could tell you. A woman
at my office has a Mariachi band made of stuffed frogs
and tin guitars. I am making a garden, dreaming

into spring, pale daffodils, crocus, orange columbine. 
The sunroom will have a heated floor of satillo tile.
I gave your buffalo robe to a Chickasaw poet, who one day

will give it to her daughter, and she to hers. I have tried
to put your things where they belong. The Hudson Bay painting
to a man who never loved a picture before. Your gold

LaBaron convertible to the artist who painted the woods
you went into, finally. Sometimes I look for you there. 
Are you where you belong?

 

Santa Lucia Day

I meet this winter without celebration,
as the man who was dying, but now lives,
greets the ants that pass through his kitchen
in narrow, undisturbed rows.

When the child with her crown of candles
comes to my door in her white dress, singing,
I watch the delicate notes disperse in pale
cold light, like snow.

Santa Lucia Day

   

Secrets

Listen. I will tell you everything. The weather is turning. 
Soon it will be time to unroll the Persian rugs and lay them
on the polished floors. 

I will hold nothing back. I am brittle, like glass; like leaves
of a tree too long without water; a cocoon, untenanted,
exposed to the sun. 

This morning I wore a jacket to walk the river path. Two crows,
in their black robes, pecked at the body of a thick green snake. 
My mother was a northerner.

She carried me across thin ice. Many times I slipped beneath
the frozen water. I never knew my father. Tomatoes are laid
on the kitchen counter,

red bulbs on the maple wood. I prepare the knife:  steel blade,
sharpening stone. I want to slice to the seedy centers without
bruising the skin. 

I loved my father. He had perfect, beautiful hands. He kept
them manicured and clean. There are reasons you must not
touch me. My grandmother

lived with God in her garden. She fed me carrots and peas,
she put white lilies by my bed. I am telling you everything. 
It is cold here. 

Birch trees bend in their white sleeves, leaves hissing in the wind. 
A blade of sun slants down, casting serrated shadows on the hard
ground. Are you listening? 

Do you understand? The dog waits, and waits, at the door. 
Yesterday, I dropped the Murano vase. It cannot be repaired. 
I cut myself on sharp, thin air.

   
 

sleeping alone

in my broad
flowered bed
white clock ticking

on the brass table
cat’s bell
on the stairs

it is autumn
approaching
in the widening nights

the river is shallow
slow green
fish wave

their tails above
mossy stones
it is dark

long before
bedtime
fires burn

in the uncut
forests
rushing down

creek gullies
rousting deer
porcupines

the occasional
cougar
found crouching

in a window well
at the edge
of the city

I sleep through cool
nights and dream
of rivers

deep with unruly
white spring
rapids

   

small

it is not the large things
which astonish
us

the chickadee fits
in the palm
of your hand

in a crowded prison
a man carves spirit
masks

the size
of your finger
tip

   

Song to a Coastal Hunter

Trap a white ermine.  Scatter salt
on the snow.  Its tongue will freeze fast. 
Use its pelt for your pillow. 

Draw a deer to its death to blanket
your bed.  Put salt-licks in the forest. 
Wait with your bow. 

Catch a wild songbird.  Sprinkle salt
on its tail.  Cage the bird in your bedroom
to sing you to sleep. 

Hold fast to a woman.  Taste the salt
on her skin.  Leave your sea scent behind
when you go.