September 17, 2011

She still prefers the dance,
the gentle gesticulation, the subtle glide,
the come-hither wings as wisps
and threads…

For her to try
the language of our words
would be a revolution
spread from forest to field.

But she has stopped trying. We held out
our hands, holding the new
seriousness with the new land
in a new communion, my Queen.

We held the land, beheld the sky.
The daylight that danced in between
the dance and our dream
was another’s dream, too religious…

Her name must have been Marnia. She came
each morning to the tree to play
with dolls and paper mâché:
To her, play was so sacred, our honey was a chore.


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