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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.

 

 

 

 

 

SHE SITS ACROSS FROM ME         

 

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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