Friday, April 20, 2012

Two Poems, Author's Name Missing: Trespassing, Breaking Ground


The river gets to the sea. The mouth opens.
There's a word for it. Embouchure. Think
of a french whore. I'd like to change my profession
now that my poems are wide and the flute is in them.

I slip into an easy chair. The muscles pull
into a new shape. The wind freshens, changes direction,
the sun is falling into the sea, apricot tree spilling
its branches toward the ground. I stuff my mouth
with cherries, enter the house, drop my dress on the floor.
The shoes are under the bed, the bougainvillea gains
the top of the wall and falls over, begins to grow down,
mango seed pressed against the tongue, the planets
tug at all the branches. This round of living
may be done with the eyes closed.

Everything is a piece of a circle.
but there must also be doors in it. The Navajo
leave a thread for the spirit to cross over.
The stream has a trunk across it. Nothing stands by itself.
The wall is perforated, water always burrows somewhere,
is not interested in fences. When the rain falls,s
enterprising men put up stakes in the puddles:
"This rain is mine."


Toward the south, through the center
of a still brown patch of weeds,
a living green line,
like marble dividing stone,
cuts the hill, a caesarean section
from navel to pubic bone.
Scar on the belly of my mother
where I tore her open.
Across the canyon, a rock face
has been split into labia
and there are hundreds of buttocks and hips,
breasts cut with a water knife
from the body rock.

Here is the winter knot
before it's cut into spring.
in my belly,
the stone of light
split open,
something green emerged
and exploded into a thousand arms.

The grass has come again,
insidious spring over the disguised rock,
the mustard returns and the lupine bruise
in the raw, scabrous wind,
now acacia, bees, moths, ants, birds
ground out of uterine stone.

This is the order:
green, earth, stone, sulphur, bedrock, fire.

              Peace and trembling
              throughout the body of the Mother.

Linda's Hearth note: Does someone recognize the author of this  very compelling poetry? I love it.

I can't seem to find the notes that once were with them. Pages consecutive from a once-book, pages 48 - 49.

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