Saturday, June 28, 2014

Half-Wolf Blessing

May your conception come
mysteriously, so that
i don't know who to blame,
or thank. May your presence,

secret and obvious in my body,
endow it with a new assurance;
grant to me, the mother,
a life-maker's inner authority.

May you be two, to counteract
your utter aloneness.
And may you be made female
and male, encompassing

all potentialities. Your fur--
may it be black & soft, and may
your muscles quickly learn to leap 
from my arms to scampering

after one another in the green field.
In innocence and joy. May you be
protected in the dream world, 
when i've gone. And may you break 

my heart upon the awakening. 

she held a little funeral for it
in the back yard
the back yard, which had been overgrown
since the brief rains, and now
piebald with burnt patches
but all long, and tangled
by the work of spiders, and wind
like the story-telling pelt 
of a once-liberated house cat
matted & greasy on your doorstep,
with a layer of dust,
calling you forth from work in the kitchen.

in the kitchen,
where mind turns inward 
from the pressure of clutter,
yesterday's dishes from the prep
of a large pot of beans that will 
sustain you now for days or weeks
jostling elbows with the cutting board
of this morning's breakfast, leering
& catcalling at the clean plates
& wineglasses of two nights ago--
ill at ease in the frail safety
of the dishrack. 

                          the cat
calls you forth
into presence, and the act

of service. the kitchen
is still cluttered, plus one fork & bowl
for cat food but you walk
through the patch of sunlight 
in the east side of the house 
to the rear sliding glass door & exit
onto the back patio, out
into the embrace of honeysuckle from 
six yards away.

she cleared the backyard of its 
overgrowth & held 
a little funeral for what 
had passed away. 
Of Wanting

The first two lines of this piece are excerpted from Geffrey Davis's poem, "What I Mean When I Say Farmhouse". 

We have our places for
loneliness-- that loaded asking of the body.

And what a strange, heavy bauble to be given
at birth and told not what to do with. Some hang

it round the neck of another: you,
you the center to which this, my itching

gravity shall pull. It has been pulled
into weaving, oral tradition, the stories of

what this or that one did with her yearning, what heights
what great distances he travelled

at devotion's behest. Vast & dust-blessed
libraries of tomes, written & unwritten, all

scrawled in someone's pain, the patient
self-prescribing, hand claw-fisting around threads found

from the air; discovery in sheer desperation.
Each stalk of wheat in a serotinal field somewhere 

a tried & true method, sanctified by shaman, 
magician, neuroses' emanation, pope. 

Damned voices of saints. Keys told 
to transmogrify our shared, yet secret pulse 

of wanting.