~ 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

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.