small hands
folding paper cranes
as grief rises
At the small, time-worn
cafe, the woman in the
bell-shaped hat
of crushed green velvet, palms
warmed by the chipped enamel
mug of dark coffee, this woman,
setting adrift a gondola of words
to cross the unsayable,
reaching, with grave intent,
toward her lover, the empty chair
holding him infinitely near.
How to live
patiently, in praise
of mysterious drift, the questions
burning dark in your heart, stolen keys
fitted to foreign locks;
you, spy
and thief
to your own drama, holding shadows
to high standards, must abide
with fierce intent, and not seek meaning
or easy answers, but how to live,
with Grace as your witness,
at the center of an enigma.
Picking God’s scabs
with a savage hangnail—
define satire.
Divine,
immeasurable
wedlock between
infinitely charged particles;
I, humbly engaged,
to bear witness
(For Sylvia Plath, 1932-1963)
I.
sylvia in chains
and drag: the green-eyed
bee-witch, Ariella,
poised on her
remote blue star,
chilled and unblinking
succubus
to the men
she promises
to swallow, whole,
like air
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