AUTUMN MORNING
Autumn morning. We are cooking for the crowd,
my daughter and I, yawning over toast
and bacon, still not saying much aloud.
Outside, the early wind stirs up a ghost
tornado of dry leaves, then lets them fall.
I cannot open the new jar of jam.
She takes it, opens it--no way to call
back the poignant child-look that states: I am
strong now. You can no longer guard the door
and keep me safe beside you. I can go.
A lioness will make her first kill and roar.
The pride will rearrange itself and flow
into the right new patterns, shaped by kin.
Something passes, that will not come again.
LIONS
Hidden in tall grass still touched by sun,
almost dusk, the wild golden pride will feast
with snarling pleasure sharpened by the run
on the hot carcass of a wildebeest.
The lissome, tawny bodies ebb and flow
around the scavenged trophy, a bloody fee
will pay the lean hyenas, while a crow
clings to the branch of an acacia tree,
waiting for the furred ones to gorge and sleep.
The same full moon that rises over that veldt
will shine for us, my love, and then we'll keep
promises, dark and warm enough to melt
the ice of sorrow, snow of discontent.
The wind is singing: I smell the lions' scent.
DON'T LOOK DOWN
Scheherazade told stories for her life,
patterned the palace walls with scenes of greed
and dust and pageantry, her role as wife
to end the boredom of a king and feed
his restless heart and soul for one more night.
Her voice came from the moonlight by his bed,
as soft as silver water, clear as light.
Sometimes she glanced at the Other one, head
hooded, dark eyes gentle and serene, One
who stayed in shadow, patient in the dark,
who knew she walked on slivered glass and won
each day's reprieve with crimson footprints, mark
of the story-teller clan. We have heard
her sing in the caged heart's night, like a bird.
EMISSARY
Sisters,
I was raised on ranches,
in logging camps,
among men
who fell in love
with me in droves.
Sisters, know this:
I did good for you
and me.
Your lovers and husbands
who loved me first
as an icon,
as Woman,
love you better
because I cradled
them gently
in the Wise-Woman hands
we share.
Serious as a priestess,
I heard the truth behind
the shy words
of strong, inarticulate men,
and honored it for you.
And sometimes, Sisters,
because I am
a woman too,
I allowed
that quick glimpse
of a crescent of thigh
by the river.
CLAIRE
She dances barefoot
on the deck while Sirens
sing sweet madness.
This is no Penelope
unweaving promises
for twenty years.
She will make
a house
around your windows.