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At The Abbey
In a tide of lavender
arms dappled by sun and stem
vie with black bees for nectar.
The stone wall of the abbey
is weary of the artists brush and
bleach of lenses.
It breathes them away
with memory of silent skies and
novices on dusty roads.
Women appear on the tiled roof|
with gauze skirts draped
between their thighs.
They bathe in the June sun,
listen to the steps of monks
inching toward prayer,
and whisper to them
with attar from the blooms.
I join them in their hopeless vigil,
my arms hungry
for the heat of summer prayer.
They know me from
a dozen other churches.
We have stalked robed ghosts before,
seducing ourselves with chants
of hooded profiles
who share lavender with
black bees
in a quiet coupling
of earth and the divine.
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French Knot
Pear blossoms tight against the shaft
quicken in an April chill.
In the cleft of bark and bloom
I see the pearl comb in my mothers hair.
A French knot winds to her neck,
auburn tide bound by the dressers hand.
Each pin prescribed,
each cusp moored,
he shapes a pillar, incising lines
like a blower etching glass.
She watches his eyes and hands
conjure the awakening.
Her eyes strike the mirror
and invoke a bloom.
He lifts the pearls and they become the knot:
for a moment the portrait speaks.
In the delicate journey from lips to eyes,
she claims beauty, silent and ferocious.
Pear blossoms cleave in spring,
a momentary blind against the sky,
then roll like pearls across the road
in the late April wind.
Musing on Branches of an Almond Tree
in Blossom by Vincent Van Gogh
Blossoms of the almond tree
seamed to the rawboned dancers legs,
wed to the fray like Geishas,
to antic fingers that grope the sky.
Pained beauty dressed for wind and insects
much like our friendship:
queer ceremony of blush and decay. |