The Soul’s Landscape
Ah, what the soul gives for shape –
to be handled head-first
at the temple, to be cumbered
with cotton, white puffs
from plantations in heat; what it gives,
for the flick, flick elastic
on wrists, loose-leaf palms it befriends,
at its youngest – for the sake
of all this, and this place.
Love me now with your
hands (says the soul, half-exploring its
landscape), better me
with embodiment; come, angle the ribs
where they beach into
longing; come, finger the oval description
of death, smallest hope
for cessation. When the room is redundant
of space, and its walls
wish for closure, thumb my corners
up, inward, wade your lips
through the ridge where they meet,
to allow recollection.
I must love with the tissue and the gloss
that embody: cellule, elegy,
ghost, danger, languish... all those words
out of context for souls,
God-forsaken, whiplash of the neck –
Interim
is a word I would use the most cautiously;
how precarious its hum,
ear to earth, plumbing earth, earthwise.
From: The Soul's Landscape (A chapbook, Aldrich Poetry Prize, 2001; reprinted in A Commerce of Moments, Pavement Saw Press, 2003).
~~~
First House
Hardly a way to find the window and the lock,
the bellied casement with its screen,
ironskin of evening; We have not
mastered the equation: this remembrance
and the past, the odd aroma and a jar
of pickled mangoes. The tongue recovers
first the sugar, then the treetop,
then the fruit; one for one, what is
memory turns portent—which is good,
since we're traipsing out of doors,
out of kitchens, out of decks, into a clean
white morning. Come, see
where you were feasted in those days,
the curtains slung, the sky deliciously intrusive.
A blue fan whistled; a woman cried.
And the body recognized, while the portent
whispered: might be. Come, see where
you were born; a mother's memory restores it.
A pitcher trembled in the foyer,
With a garland of chrysanthemums—
Yellow bush around the belly.
And the birds brushed on
Its porcelain flew home, while she lay
Wish-worn, child-bearing,
Loving more, more—
Baby talk. The garland clipped. Thumbs
Across her knuckles in a T—
Te quiero, te amo: words upon
Her sweaty wrists. The achy limb-sway
Metaphored, futured into spring.
From: Fully Into Ashes (Wings Press, forthcoming; first appeared in Hotel Amerika).
~~~
Shadows of Innocence
Purewhite, paperwhites,
odor of petals on the wicker-stand on which
we lean.
Deathwhite, dogwood white, hybrid
shadows behind the screened porch...
We have been cautioned not
to invade the white square off the house,
where the dead live.
Why did you bring the bulbs
indoors this year? Fresh spring-
whites are for old slabs with their prone angels.
Remember the dotted hearts in our earliest
missals, their venial lesson, scent
of onion skin. We learned
from them never to flirt with a fragrance,
for the sake of our faithfulness.
Blameless lily-white,
how it escapes us, as white always does,
with the merest gesture: a finger
smudge on the slick envelope, thin trickle
on the swab where a nail
ripped, velvet eye-shade against the tissue,
powdery death.
Remember the white cassock our priest wore
in summer heat, like a returning santo?
It dropped its length on stubby
feet, into our muddy garden.
From: A Commerce of Moments (Editor's Prize, Transcontinental Poetry Award, Pavement Saw Press, 2003; first appeared in Pavement Saw Magazine).
~~~
One Thirst
Absolve us for not knowing
what to eat, how thickly to lay
honey on the bread,
how long to soak the slices.
These are customs children learn,
half-wakened in their homes,
their mamá bowed over the stone,
whole body stirring.
Before long, she wipes her hands
on cotton plied against her hip.
The children set their spoons where
light erupts,
bounces against each bowl,
and skims over bright steel as stippled
cross.
Absolve us for not watching
long enough—those rituals:
cup of water, pinch of sugar brittle fine,
the yeast exhaling clean brume
on the pane, wet blossoms on a paten,
the kitchen ladling, ladling quiet grace.
Come, mamá, knead once more,
once more reflect the customary
pressing with hand’s heel, folding,
urging up and outward on the slab.
The dough springs, earnest, to the rim.
Niños, do not stray too far—
Now, she pulls the aroma inward, fuzz
of infant mornings, gold grain
into heart at supper’s dusk.
Come, niños, to the table. It is time.
Sheaf of wheat she neatly braces,
breaking no familiar stalk.
From: Corpus Homini: A Poem for Single Flesh (Whitebird Poetry Series Prize, Wings Press, 2008; first appeared in Green Hills Literary Lantern, Pushcart Prize nominee).
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