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    Moon Is Always Female

    Page 8
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      legs kick hard.

      The angel struck me

      and we wrestled all that night.

      My dust-stained gristle of a body

      clad in proper village black

      was pushed against him

      and his fiery chest

      fell through me like a star.

      Raw with bruises, with my muscles

      sawing like donkey’s brays,

      I thought fighting can be

      making love. Then in the grey

      placental dawn I saw.

      “I know you now, face

      on a tree of fire

      with eyes of my youngest sweetest

      dead, face

      I saw in the mirror

      right after my first child

      was born—before it failed—

      when I was beautiful.

      Whatever you are, whatever

      I’ve won a blessing

      from you. Bless me!”

      The angel, “Yes, we have met

      at doors thrust open to an empty room,

      a garden, or a pit.

      My gifts have human faces

      hieroglyphs that command

      you without yielding what they mean.

      Cast yourself

      and I will bless your cast

      till your bones are dice

      for the wind to roll.

      I am the demon of beginnings

      for those who leap their thresholds

      and let the doors swing shut.”

      My hair bristling, I stood.

      “Get away from me, old

      enemy. I know the lying

      radiance of that face:

      my friend, my twin, my

      lover I trusted as the fish

      the water, who left me

      carrying his child.

      The man who bought me

      with his strength and beat

      me for his weakness.

      The girl I saved who turned

      and sold her skin

      for an easy bed in a house

      of slaves. The boy fresh

      as a willow sapling

      smashed on the stones of war.”

      “I am the spirit of hinges,

      the fever that lives in dice

      and cards, what is picked

      up and thrown down. I am

      the new that is ancient,

      the hope that hurts,

      what begins in what has ended.

      Mine is the double vision

      that everything is sacred, and trivial,

      the laughter that bubbles in blood,

      and I love the blue beetle

      clicking in the grass as much

      as you. Shall I bless you,

      child and crone?”

      “What has plucked the glossy

      pride of hair from my scalp,

      loosened my teeth in their sockets,

      wrung my breasts dry as gullies,

      rubbed ashes into my sleep

      but chasing you?

      Now I clutch a crust and I hold on.

      Get from me

      wielder of the heart’s mirages.

      I will follow you to no more graves.”

      I spat

      and she gathered her tall shuddering wings

      and scaled the streaks of the dawn

      a hawk on fire soaring

      and I stood there and could hear the water burbling

      and raised my hand

      before my face and groped:

      Why has the sun gone out?

      Why is it dark?

      White on black

      LUIS

      They say the year begins in January, but it

      feels like the same old year to me. Things

      give out now, the cabbages rot, the rent

      in the coat sleeve’s too worn to be mended,

      the boot finally admits it leaks, the candle

      nub gutters out with a banner of pungent smoke.

      The cracked dish of the frozen moon lights

      the snow far longer than the old fox of the sun

      that can hardly scale the hill, that crawls

      feebly into the lower branches of the pine

      and drops to earth exhausted.

      Little sister

      of the moon you prance on the ice with

      delicate black feet. Your eyes shine red.

      You comb your long tail and plume it out.

      You mate under the porch. With sharp claws

      you dig up the compost and scavenge the dump.

      The air is crystal up to the ice splinters

      of stars but you raise the quickest warm

      nose in the woods, long, sharp as your hunger.

      In the path you wait for me to give way.

      Often you die bloody in the road because

      you expect deference. The wise dog looks

      the other way when you cross his yard.

      The stupid dog never bothers you twice.

      Little sister, mostly when we meet we bow

      rather formally and go our ways, me

      first. I read in a book that perhaps if one

      lifted you by your tail, you could not spray

      or perhaps you could. I envision a man

      in a space suit lumbering over the plain

      of the Herring River to catch and lift

      you in the name of science. Then the space

      suit would be burned perhaps or perhaps

      not. My cats and I sit in the darkened

      livingroom watching through the glass

      as you dance and nibble, your long fur

      sweeping the snow and your nailed feet quick.

      Another country

      NION

      When I visited with the porpoises

      I felt awkward, my hairy

      angular body sprouting its skinny

      grasping limbs like long mistakes.

      The child of gravity and want I sank

      in the salt wave clattering with gadgets,

      appendages. Millennia past

      they turned and fled back to the womb.

      There they feel no fatigue but slip

      through the water caressed and buoyed up.

      Never do they sleep but their huge brains

      hold life always turning it like a pebble

      under the tongue, and lacking practice, death

      comes as an astonishment.

      In the wide murmur of the sea they fear

      little. Together they ram the shark.

      Food swims flashing in schools.

      Hunger is only a teasing, endured

      no longer than desired. Weather

      is superficial decoration; they rise

      to salute the thunder, romping their tails.

      They ride through pleasure and plenty

      secure in a vast courtesy

      firm enough to sustain a drowning man.

      Nothing is said bluntly.

      All conversation is a singing,

      all telling alludes to and embodies

      minute displacements in epic,

      counter-epic, comic opera, or the four hundred

      forty-one other genres they recognize

      as current. Every exchange comes

      as aria, lyric, set piece, recitativo,

      and even a cry for help is couched

      in a form brief and terse,

      strict as haiku.

      Greed has no meaning when no one

      is hungry. Thus they swim toward

      us with broad grins and are slaughtered

      by the factory ships

      that harvest the tuna like wheat.

      Crescent moon like a canoe

      FEARN

      This month you carried me late and heavy

      in your belly and finally near Tuesday

      midnight you gave me light and life, the season

      Kore returns to Demeter, and you suffer

      and I cannot save you though I burn with dreams.

      Memories the color of old blood,

      scraps of velvet gowns,
    lace, chiffon veils,

      your sister’s stage costumes (Ziegfeld

      didn’t stint) we lingered together, you

      padding in sneakers and wash-worn housedresses.

      You grew celery by tucking sliced off

      bottoms in the soil. You kept a compost

      pile in 1940. Your tomatoes glowed

      like traffic signals in the table-sized yard.

      Don’t kill spiders, you warned.

      In an asbestos box in Detroit where sputtering

      factories yellow the air, where sheets

      on the line turn ashen, you nurtured

      a backyard jungle. Every hungry cat

      wanted to enter and every child.

      You who had not been allowed to finish

      tenth grade but sent to be a frightened

      chambermaid, carried home every week

      armloads of books from the library

      rummaging them late at night, insomniac,

      riffling the books like boxes of chocolates

      searching for the candied cherries, the nuts,

      hunting for the secrets, the formulae,

      the knowledge those others learned

      that made them shine and never ache.

      You were taught to feel stupid; you

      were made to feel dirty; you were

      forced to feel helpless; you were trained

      to feel lost, uprooted, terrified.

      You could not love yourself or me.

      Dreamer of fables that hid their own

      endings, kitchen witch, reader of palms,

      you gave me gifts and took them back

      but the real ones boil in the blood

      and swell in the breasts, furtive, strong.

      You gave me hands that can pick up

      a wild bird so that the bird relaxes,

      turns and stares. I have handled

      fifty stunned and injured birds and killed

      only two through clumsiness, with your touch.

      You taught me to see the scale on the bird

      leg, the old woman’s scalp pink as a rose

      under the fluff, the golden flecks in the iris

      of your eye, the silver underside of leaves

      blown back. I am your poet, mother.

      You did not want the daughter you got.

      You wanted a girl to flirt as you did

      and marry as you had and chew the same

      sour coughed up cud, yet you wanted too

      to birth a witch, a revenger, a sword

      of hearts who would do all the things

      you feared. Don’t do it, they’ll kill

      you, you’re bad, you said, slapping me down

      hard but always you whispered, I could have!

      Only rebellion flashes like lightning.

      I wanted to take you with me, you don’t

      remember. We fought like snakes, biting

      hard at each other’s spine to snap free.

      You burned my paper armor, rifled my diaries,

      snuffed my panties looking for smudge of sex,

      so I took off and never came back. You can’t

      imagine how I still long to save you,

      to carry you off, who can’t trust me

      to make coffee, but your life and mine pass

      in different centuries, under altered suns.

      I see your blood soaking into the linoleum,

      I see you twisted, a mop some giant hand

      is wringing out. Pain in the careless joke

      and shouted insult and knotted fist. Pain like knives

      and forks set out on the domestic table.

      You look to men for salvation and every year

      finds you more helpless. Do I battle

      for other women, myself included,

      because I can not give you anything

      you want? I can not midwife you free.

      In my childhood bed we float, your sweet

      husky voice singing about the crescent

      moon, with two horns sharp and bright we would

      climb into like a boat and row away

      and see, you sang, where the pretty moon goes.

      In the land where the moon hides, mothers

      and daughters hold each other tenderly.

      There is no male law at five o’clock.

      Our sameness and our difference do not clash

      metal on metal but we celebrate and learn.

      My muse, your voice on the phone wavers with tears.

      The life you gave me burns its acetylene

      of buried anger, unused talents, rotted wishes,

      the compost of discontent, flaring into words

      strong for other women under your waning moon.

      O!

      Oh, the golden bauble of your rising

      wet from the waves rippling,

      radiating like orgasm, round

      as a singing mouth at full stretch,

      round as the vagina when it takes,

      round as a full belly, round

      as a baby’s head, you come to us

      riding over the white manes

      of the waves, walking on their backs

      like a circus rider. Hoop

      of cool fire, goose egg,

      silver mirror in which we see

      ourselves dimly but truly reflected,

      our blood is salty water

      you tug at, drawing us.

      Red onion, I peel you layer

      by layer and weep. The nights

      carve you and then you swell

      again, lady of the wild animals

      whose homes are paved and poisoned,

      lady of the furry mammals at teat

      and the shimmering fish whose sides

      echo you, of those who hunt for roots

      and berries, hunt for the island

      in the sea where love rules and women

      are free to wax and wane and wander

      in the sweet strict seasons

      of our desires and needs.

     

     

     



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