A Poem for Kamala’s Kiss

Beautiful brown man,
I thought I could laugh at you,
mock your poverty
as if it equaled no mind,
no heart,
deny you even the kiss
you ask of me in payment
for a simple poem,

but you opened the vessel of your soul
like the cool breeze just before the rain,
and I must have you, drink you in—
my mouth long at the well of your words.

If I were rich, Siddhartha,
I would cast all my gold
into your watery depths
for the honor
of bringing up the bucket
and beholding the sound
of sweet light
again and again.

How I can kiss, Siddhartha,
for the promise
of another poem
tomorrow.

Kamala Meditates on Finding Desire

In the shadow of the wide sky,
in the sun on the droplets of dew,
in the shadow of a northern forest,
in the shadow of an oak tree,
you come to me Siddartha
offering me your mouth,
like a fresh fig
moist, and sticky sweet
bursting open and fragrant.

Your words are gifts greater
than other young men who come to me
in beautiful robes
with purses full of many coins.
They must buy my love,
beg me to show them
the art I weave with my body, this fine gauzy cloth
wrapped around them, whispered in their ears
and bathed onto their oiled skin and hair,
scented songs of birds nesting on their warm flesh
like first morning light.

But you come boldly
out of the forest, Siddhartha,
to the entrances of my gardens
and offer me words
in nothing but a tattered loin cloth.
You ask me to teach you
about my abundant love
and I am enchanted
at the empty bowl
you have filled to overflowing
with the mango, perfumed droplets
of all my desire.
These simple words
stir me to the core of everything I am.

What did I know of love before you, Siddhartha?
What will I ever know again without the brush of your hand
at my cheek or your hungry lips at my sweet brown breast?

Even my breath
cannot fill my lungs
like the thought of you.

The Longest Days

The longest days are upon us again
and the gift of fireflies
welcomes me home at midnight—
smiles in the darkness
before sweet sleep closes my mind,
lets me rest from my weary wanderings
on the road to somewhere, near anywhere,
past no where.

It is known in certain circles,
and on the paths of some women,
that bones in small children
and wings of new angels
only grow while the body slumbers.
Layers of fine calcification
and downy feathers
gather like dust around me.
At first translucent specks flicker
in the yellow sun of morning--
then flash as daydreams.
Before I know what has happened
I am covered in memory.
I can’t tell the difference anymore
between the white petals of daisies
and the melting cold of snowflakes
caught in my eyelashes in December.

Somehow it doesn’t matter.
I love them both equally
for their beauty—
two children to be embraced,
then cast like stranded starfish
into the great waters of time.

If you come to me today,
walking slowly toward the fountain
that flows gently from my heart,
I will drop all intentions to the floor
and follow you into flight.
My bones are hollow now,
like any creature who must fly.
And my eyes,
they can’t help but fall in love
with the cloudless sky.

Daisies Opening on a June Morning in New Hampshire

They are opening today
just like they do every June
bringing adoring breath to my open heart.
White petals unfold
insisting on love
with the absolute truth
that only a flower on a long stem
smiling at the sun can do.

Love, I want you.
I want your belly pressed to mine,
your forehead firmly against mine
so I might see your eyes,
look to the center of you,
so that there is no need to ask you for more light
or to open yourself wider to allow me to plunge deeper
into these waters we’ve come to explore.

I promise to take nothing
but what has been mine before.
I offer you these daisies today,
one perpetual petal at a time,
as an offering
of no expectation
but beauty
and the kindness of your heart
that can’t help but love
in the absolute terms
of this exact moment
in this exact life
in the spaces and lines
between the white petals
of a June flower.

Reality looks just like this radiance.

Gliding Past Midnight

It seems so long
since I’ve seen you up close
winged friend,
round curves guiding this body to rest,
the peacefulness of the circle,
the female whispering lullabies into the darkness.

Tonight you came with a rapture’s talon lunging at my throat,
my voice cutting the blackness in a single glancing blow
before carrying the silence
toward morning into the west.

I long for this kind of decisiveness--
to leave the nest at dusk,
fly over the shadow of trees
without the fear that clips my wings,
tethering me to this sleeping hunger
who dozes as his prize,
his fading treasure, is swallowed
by this hungry hound
at the heels of soiled boots.

Come again tonight and I will be awake
waiting to hear you glide,
cutting through this ignorance,
my beautiful red cloak open at the breast,
exposed to the healing coolness
of midnight air.

Enter me here in this place
and the magic
can’t help but dance
with joy.

Shaking Out The Soul

I shiver
and the body
that has become my temporary home
trembles awake
waiting for the lover to arrive,
to take hold of the corners
of the bed covers,
shake the soul free of night,
to curl his body
around me,
his arms encircling my ribs,
the place where my heart,
the mourning dove of desire coos,
waiting for this embrace,
waiting for the tremors
to break me,
to collapse at dawn around me
forcing me to walk the labyrinth,
to ask the question at the heart,
nearest the sun,
and to walk holding my hand
until the answer
comes like to Madonna,
laughs with the absurdity
of absolute love—
as sure as the morning breeze
shakes the soul
free of the cover of night,
white sheets
crisp and light
as everything truth
can possibly know.

In a Letter to My Sister
I Describe Paradise

In Paradise,
I say,
I become a nun
or a Great Blue Heron
standing tall and alone,
no man in my bed
or in my field of vision
to distract me from seeing
to the center of a soul
who has lived enough times
to count.

In Paradise,
I say to my sister,
there are no geometry classes
where the basketball coach
taught us we didn’t count,
those of us with long braids
down our backs
and the shapes turn to panic
like the trip down a cylinder,
dark inside to the womb,
where someone declares us well,
or not.
Where some man decides when and how often
is enough,
like washing sheets and towels,
like polishing silver, washing the car,
like taking out the trash.

Finding Paradise,
I say to my sister in this letter,
takes desperate measures
for women like us
who must find our own Exodus
out of the endings of a journey
that make us wander in circles
with the words
“An Act of Faith”
in plain site of “Truth”
and freedom.
We must say goodbye to our chatty friend, Disappointment,
so that we may find our hero, Courage.

In Paradise,
I say to my sister again,
I become a Great Blue Heron
with my keen black eye on a flashy fish of pleasure
and wait patiently in my own expansive waters of time
and strike precisely at moonrise,
tip my head back and let joy enter often
taking cool midnight flight
to my solitary nest
satisfied at the knowledge of hunger
finally filled.