~ after Remedios Varo, “Garden of Love,” 1951; oil on masonite
And you were the bird that visited
me in the cage of my house, the warm
mustard of your breast a foil
to my ice-colored cast. I stood
on the threshold, having come
from miles of subterranean
engagement with myself, solitary
as a bull sitting in the middle
of a dirt-floor room where all
the shades are constantly dawn.
I admired your rosy winged
optimism, the blade
of your anxiety held in check
by its own gallant sword. Aren’t
we a pair? There’s hardly any
boundary left to cross, now that
we’re mostly on the same side; even
the forbidding woods have opened up.