Landscape
An old woman squats near the earth;
Takes some of it up and crushes the
Crust in her lined palms.
Her mind Holds to it:
Burnt bread, waspnests. Cricket legs.
Barnswallow homes.
She thinks of dry mullein and
Pollen on the feet of bees.
Dust drifts down; powdering her
White legs and landing on
Yolk-colored toe nails. Her pores bloom.
Each hair rising with the wind.
Through the shell of her skull and
Out the loosening knots of spine,
She drains into the plow's mark;
Dreams she is a seed.
Bloom Pirate
I be the rose thief and bloom pirate.
Heed the prize in me bleeding fist.
I be the wild rose cherisher;
Capturing blood-buds, thorns and
All with just me bare hands.
No blade against the sharp green claws.
Cool molten folds comfort me flesh.
Petals heal the torn cups of me palms.
I brew wine from rose hips and sing of
Red raids. Cuts gush smiling from me
Fingers. I laugh and suck me blood
For sustenance. I be the rose ravager,
Feeding the thorns and swinging from trellises.
Dirt on the doormat. A bushel of roses
Torn out by the roots. Me blood on the
Basket-wood, on rusted wire handles.
I leave it at your door now and knock.
O, terror so becomes a rose.
