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70 pages, Paperback
First published April 1, 2003
When they sang to be free,
you captured those quick birds relentlessly
and kept a slow, sure mercy in your deeds,
leaving them room to peck and hunt their seeds
in the white cages your vast iron art
had made by moving books, and lives, and creeds.
I take from you as you take me apart.
(From “Letter for Emily Dickinson”, p. 6).
We wait outside time, while night collects courage
around us. The vigil is wordless. And you
watch the longest, move the farthest, besieged by your breath,
pulling into your body. You stare towards your death,
head arched on the pillow, your left fingers curled.
Your mouth sucking gently, unmoved by these hours
and their vigil of salt spray, you show us how far
you are going, and how long the long minutes are,
while spiraling night watches over the room
and takes you, until you watch us in turn.
(From “Elegy For My Father,” pp. 14-15)
I had a woman’s tears, and a woman’s teeth
that could not bite, although the ruddy wreath
of my soft lips was closing. And my heart
crawled like a serpent. And that is the part
you married, Lycius, when you made the sun
shine over my damp earth, and grew with me to one
(“Lamia to Lycius,” p. 38)
