~ after Remedios Varo, “La Llamada” (The Call), 1961
A blue curtain descends
from the rafters When a door
opens you think of the end
of life The yard of your childhood
home Quilted rows of vegetation
that fed only other hungers
Tiny white flowers guarding
the places where stone met stone
Nothing you could throw in a pot
if there was nothing else
But here is all this loneliness
It presents itself to your care
From one to another you stumble
with vials of balm, your bottled
songs, your practiced step
You want to smooth the canyon’s
raised edges Flute ridges until
they’re fragrant as old wood
Are you afraid when the cardinal
flashes her breast in the bush
That bright red gash a warning
As though some celestial object
pinned you under its glare It traces
your steps Knows before you do
which form you’ll touch first
Which last Which not at all