Tuesday, November 09, 2004

There I stood cooking pork chops
When my heart finally demanded the exorcism
Years this story has waited,
"Forget your frying pan,
Tell it and be done."

Patiently the dog follows me out of the kitchen,
Stretches and lays down on a single shoe next to the desk
He licks a paw while I cogitate
How far back into the cambium do I need to reach
To untap this flow of sap?

It is March, and I am standing waiting
At the entrance to the art gallery
I am wearing a blue sheath, a soft navy chenille sweater
Which hugs me close,
Dark stockings and pumps,
My heavy winter coat stashed in a locker
I feel
Light footed, luminous,
My hair smells of jasmine and I am waiting, early
With anticipation I cannot
Sit down.

He walks in, he is
So tall, he is rushing over
He is lifting me off my feet
I am spinning inside
Spinning outside as he sets me down
Turns me so he can see
Spins for me too, we are shyly whirling
For each other because
We have never met

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