Will

Does the wood pigeon know?

when he calls his coo into the night

the cats who stalk will slink toward

the smell of blood and feathers

as I have gathered myself into quills

and spices sealed in alabaster jar

the sum of me is traveled

through moon and sun

like a cut orange leaves her

stain on wood, sticky and bitter

as your imprint has become

my mandala and the furtherance of us

defies life and death

shaking itself off like a dog released from bath

will hurtle, maddened, toward nearest escape

I grew my vines in your wood

my embers are your fire

this melange of you and I

twined like grapes gathering sunlight

before first frost

and the women take in the clothes, hanging on frozen line

even as they capture the day’s warmth

you stretch in this paper thin life time

sew the jagged edges of my need

with your ivory needle

as if we were part of the same

garment

held up

by

sheer

force of

will

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For then was our time

three-girls-having-tea-party-at-grace-mcmonagles-house-probably-seattle-washingtonIn thatched thicket of March
invisible webs caught light
staying our hand to remembrance
for then was our time, roughly
put together we stayed storms
our footprints bleaching journey
like shells without swirl
though you often looked
straight-backed and supple
against the long glass
like a diver of pearls who
caught the sheen and glow
they possessed, capturing
in un-rinsed jelly cups the
reddened lips of a child
with her thick inky hair
fastened by protesting ribbon
pouring out of her the shimmer

of deep-sea ancestors

bequeathing you immortality
as cast in moon light you
pause against time’s salty thirst