Via Negativa

Deckle. Deckle— I like the sound of that.
And I like the sound of riffled papers,
of the bookmaker folding sheets and tearing
pieces off along a straight edge, by hand.
Then there’s the unexpected: discovery
of a paper cut along the thumb, sudden
script of water poured over its envelope flap.

In response to small stone (169).

The curtains part, the lion roars to signal the beginning of the story. The clatter of the reel in the silence of the hall, the grainy colors on the film. A woodpecker drills holes in the wood: repeats, repeats. You sit in the darkened theatre on a worn velvet seat. A woman’s face comes on the screen, as if in rapture though flames lick at her bound feet. It’s always like this— there’s danger at every turn, or the tedium of long afternoons as days shade toward winter. You learn to carry your own epiphanies. I prefer the versions with no dubbed captions: the eyes say so much more, and hands are good for gestures. Before too long, music foreshadows the closing credits. A scroll floats before your eyes with the words The End.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Black rice cakes rolled in sugar
and thickened with coconut cream.
Aroma of singed banana leaves.
Juice from cane or fermented rice,
sediment in the jar. Hungry,
always hungry— here
they come, asking for more.

In response to Via Negativa: Next Life.

while you want nothing but to be

undone— To grow sleek in the dark
and unlayered in light; to be the girl,

no, all the girls who danced so much
they wore holes in their slippers,

even after the room was locked
from outside and someone threw

the key away— And the poem wants
a shirt to shrug way down its

shoulders, it wants a heap of agate
beads to slide like fingers

across its breasts. Wrap
a woven tapis about its hips

and thread the spines of skinned
reptiles through its dark hair;

under a moon round as a gangsa,
feed it rice wine sweeter than vodka

and make it tell of the night-blooming flower
that shows its face only once a year.

In response to Via Negativa: Unknitting.

An exercise: they pass the paper cup from bow to bow.
The teacher tells her student, All is memory—
how fingers clasp the wood so they will know.

We learn by doing, especially when things don’t go
the way we might have wished. Technique isn’t accessory;
it’s the calloused fingers mastered by the bow.

Full measures laid upon the flesh: no time to cringe from what we know.
We’re here, we’ll pass; but must believe there’s more than misery.
Within this kitchen’s quiet chill, I clasp you and I know.

The days, soft grey, will fill with signs presaging snow;
but music sifts through branches still, more etched than scenery.
We’ll gather kindling with calloused fingers mastered by the bow,

then fill the cups with warmth. Filched comforts might bestow
a moment’s ease, could knit affections with no boundaries.
The soul remembers what it clasped, so it would know.

As many times, repeat the lesson till the sinews know.
Exacting teacher, your syllabus is the fragmentary—
We pass a flame like breath from bow to bow
and clasp the wood as lightly as we know.

In response to small stone (166).