for Laura Nyro

I Laura's Gone

Bad like Annie Oakley,
Sweet like Calamity Jane,
asking 'Can I surrey'

across fertile black earth,
dance through a circle
surrounding the sun
                    or move
with you into a movie palace
to see film nueva
or some black and white World war II flick;
one where the bridge is saved
                              or lines of communication
are kept open, when you were a geisha
and I was a lonely G.I.

eating sweet yellow tuna
that's still breathing when it hits the plate,
with a little wasabi on the side,
to clear our throats and moisten our eyes
against the dry dust
rising from your last cigarette
when you ask 'Why was I born'

The answer came, on a gust
of summer rain, blowing across
the flawless surface
                     of the alter
wine we drank from Styrofoam cups,
lifting your soul
into the pleasure sky,
                       making the movie
turn cameo blue, burlap, and orange.

II The Rites Of Spring

The rain falls before it rises, like notes from a piano
that move with the moon, in quiet anticipation
of dawn bursting to life in song; that will grow
into a sonnet of the seeds that lay silent, screaming for redemption
outside of midnight where they hid waiting for the sun.
Quivering, they stretch their heads from the maidens thighs
into the daylight, and dance with their gentle companion
who will offer life to anything that is as willing to die.

Through summer deep roots began to burrow
into the soft earth, piercing her like harpoons from a living gun,
a reminder of the hours of love she'll sow
on the breeze; watcher, refuge, healer, the one
who will whisper a new song when the fall has come
to reclaim her children.  Never speaking a lie
when the words fail in their rush to answer the question
"Who will offer life?" to anything that is as willing to die.

When they can create no more, burying today before tomorrow
has cleared its throat to sing, repeating the words she's always sung;
an unbroken psalm that rejoices in winter, written in laurel
that is worn as a crown by the lady of magic and inspiration
when the flowers have bloomed.  They fold their arms, letting their colors run
into the dirt to be concealed; she has no need to explain why
(she is Isis, Diane, Tenderberry; everyone
who will offer life) to anything that is as willing to die.

The ground has frozen, awaiting instigation
in the first thaw of the still air outside.
They need no answers in her womb, safe in
who will offer life to anything that is as willing to die.

Some Other Kind Of Index