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Now reading
Poem to My Animal Self
Rain. Sun. Pollen rising to a haze over water and air-another summer gone, and did a single one of those sultry evenings stick? How might I keep just one of the nights when dancing pared me to flame? Someday I'll be seated alone with just a few notes floating in my head, unable to rise unassisted, and here I go again, letting the future, like fallen berries, stick to the soles of my shoes. The poems I've been reading by a woman who gave all of herself again and again to love, who let herself fill and empty like a heart- what came after? Grief may have paralyzed her for months yet a fine abandon carries the poems- a thread, golden, not to be broken. It wove a net around her body. She sank into the mesh of it, ripening and bruising. Now she is alone. Her poems are alive with lovers. And I can see in her picture, though her face has thickened, that she will always remember being beautiful.