THE WOMEN gather under the trees.
They bring gifts, food, and chairs.
They are gypsies and queens, oracles, saints,
Jezebels and jesters, healers, sages, and warriors.
And when the circle is complete, the magic begins.
Shyly, with dainty movements, they take turns,
shifting aside their robes to expose
missing limbs and gaping wounds.
The others gather close and peer, heads cocked,
eyes straining, and they chant,
"That is lovely, that is good,"
and the wounds stop weeping,
and they melt into scars,
silvery and light and beautiful.
Then the women lean back and laugh,
and they stretch, sensual and fierce,
like cats in the sun.

Sunday, February 12, 2012

What Will I Be?

Will I be a Sherpa
and strap
your baggage
to my back,
hauling it up and down the mountains 
of our life together?

Will I be that sailor high up 
in the crow's nest
pointing out
the rays of light
at the horizon,
the silver linings in the clouds?

Will I be a bloodhound,
nose to the ground,
leading you
home
through the darkness?

Will I entertain you,
make you laugh
with my stand-up routine,
juggling the facts,
dancing away from reality?

Will I be your goddess
the one to answer
all your prayers?
Will I be the one
to save you?
          --Sappho
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