Sunday, November 21, 1993

i. the serpent

She loved the stone-cold
ceramic tile, she willowed
away, curving to another form,
another life, where trees were
poor and flat-faced rocks
circled into basins
a faucet replaced the chill
of the river, with a never
moving H, teaching patience,
conservation, and a passion
never found in heat
she bent black hair, and
bit with frosted lips, she
shrouded me with frigidity, I
had the virtue of the glacier
the river flowed, and I
slept with tile, a wisp of
hair, and a gentle pale
Madonna, inside the crypt of
her temple, forgiving her as

ii. the scorpion

She told me once that her
time was over, that she was an
unreconciled past that soon must
end, and soon it did
the tile and steel fitted more
than satin, velvet, wood, I
paused and yet confirmed that it
was she, and saw her last seed
sown beneath eager trees and rain
she never said the words, but
left them penned on mirrors in
lipstick, tears, and silk, I
cried for her, and bled, and
spilled myself inside her soul
the words reflected, and her
eyes, my light, my love, I did
not know it was never her love
returned, but mine reflecting
off the mirrors of pale blue ice
absorb, my dear, her silent lips
betrayed, kiss to get burned and
keep the sun to love, the moon
must die, she cannot take, cannot
give birth, must yet reflect the
light that you create

iii. the eagle

I fell in love with salt-green
ceramic tile, with the slender
cobalt blue reserved for deep
respect, I fell in love with
life, with creation, with kids,
with blondes
I found a hollow place inside,
with salty edges, and caverns
for a glacier, and a river, and
in an empty cave, I stored a
single comb of icy lace
never asked, and never told,
the secret whispers of arctic
winds blow coldly, but with
passions that endure