noticing I haven't sewn enough wrinkled chiffon to the old
back of a slip, threatening to need the heat
dressed in scarves, I'll wake up with a bee comb
for a mouth instead of new eyes to seed
the outside air. A stark mirror for a vintage sun.
I'll wake up a widow tapping her cane, my braid
a tight tomb when the air dries.
Eventually, I'll find you inside
a broken sparrow's back. And lose you swerving,
hooking me with a pile of lures.
The orthicon bog speaking to the rain wears enough old mornings.
Here the jet stays away with its silent high
and won't drown us-- in our cartoons of black carbon
in this simple holy window closing.
Dear Kim,
Long time! I am so glad to see that you are sharing your beautiful words with the world! I still have my handmade books from Tempe, Arizona. I sent you an email and have an Eastern medicine question (non-poetry related, I know, I know).
Much love to you & your family (hi to Alejandro),
Tori