QUEST

I will find you,
wrench you
out of every hiding place,
though you choose
mountains remote
from all but the sullen
ache of wind.

Merge with the sea:
I have already tasted
the salt of your tears.
My tongue remembers.

Root and branch
in a forest,
the stench of fear
films every leaf,
the slightest wind betrays you.

Burrow in fecund earth,
under dappled leaves,
between shadows,
still I root you out.

Holding you,
I watch
the metamorphoses
of fear:
you flee from unicorn to dragon,
form a sudden, hot
rush of blood
through my fingers.

The final masquerade is to appear
naked, shivering, crouched,
blinking as though
unaccustomed to the light,
body skeined with scars,
a froth upon your lips,
madness writhing in the hollows
of your eyes.

Then,
at last,
at bay,
you stop
and stand discovered.

Raise your head:
thunder rolls,
spiked lightning
sears the sky.
Raise your hand:
cities topple,
mountains shear
and vanish into rubble.
Rainbows form
around your shoulders.
Smile: the sky splits
from horizon to horizon.
Take a deep breath:
the ribcage of the universe cracks
and the new sun dawns.

Man,
phoenix,
when at last you raise your eyes
you will find yourself
written in indelible
patterns of pride
paeans of joy.
Extend your hand.
Our fingers touch.
The gentle rains are born.


MOUNTAIN MAKER

He said I made
mountains out of molehills.
Abashed, I lowered
my eyes.

Through sudden mists,
great shapes evolved,
cliffs laced with streams,
scented with cedar--
bestowing immensity,
antlers,
intricate nostrils
flared to the wind.

I walk now
with a certain
slow dignity.
I am Mountain Maker.


HE, TO SHE

You want me to say
I love you,
small, hard words
like a scatter of pebbles
in a tin pan.
I mumble,
the small, hard pebbles
heavy on my tongue.

Someday I want to show you
the crescent mark by the door
that I am afraid to paint over,
remembering the mark
on the Hebrew doors
that protected those inside,
and I will tell you
how I do not say
your name aloud
in certain places,
so that evil
cannot find you.

Yesterday
you put
a vase of flowers
in the shop.
There--on the windowsill,
over the clutter of tools and gear,
spare parts and scrap lumber,
you put a vase of flowers.
You are to me
what the flowers are
to the room.


DANCING

A rising wind
from the sea--
the shock of fall
leaves,
sudden and
known mind-deep:
there is never
any time
but now.
Sun sinks
searing crested breakers
blood red, wine red,
and the answer
is hot
music beat on
anything from kettle to guitar.
Sun sinks spattering
clouds with crimson,
breakers roll in crested
with that final fire:
I dance it down,
that night, all night,
Holy night, only night.

Home

Page 2

Page 4

Page 5

Page 6

Page 7

Page 8

Page 9

Page 10

© Pat Hathaway