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Tenacity of Lace

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Musings #27

          THE READING               


They belong to a scientist, not a poet

she said, noticing


my crooked fingers.  In palm lines

and hollow, she reads


three children.

How a beguiled mind strains


to render true.

I have only one. And yet,


what of the boy long before,

cocoa-skinned, his hair gold-green,


who turned to me and when grown

did not know


 what to call me.

The third – no more than


a blocked egg, ectopic, another soul

intent on calling me mother.








Beyond and about her shoulders,

her hair lifts-falls,

like waves that bend the sea.


She wonders why

she plays with it.


I tell her a rabbit crouches

in the moon, the sky

a hutch for stars.


The urgency is gone now –

the clutch and tangle

I once thought love.                                                


After the rip asunder,

a deluge.  After the deluge,

calm in the spent. 











THE LURE OF CLAY                                             

                              According to Sufi legend, God coaxed spirit

                              into form when he set the clay to dancing.


I want you in your body –


my eyes want to look at you,

my hands want to touch.


But what if

– just what if –


the surprise at death is this –


these bodies have been

what separate us, 

keep us apart,


and rid of them

we are closer together

than ever –


as close as one.  Still


it is so hard to let go,

to comprehend another way –


death’s ravaging beauty.






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