I dreamed that God crafted a man in His own image
He toiled with earthly clay
An informal, undemanding material
His first endeavor appeared a mighty creation indeed
So…. He breathed life into the earthen golem
Stretched down
Raised up His construction to the heavens
For a stricter judgment
What He perceived
Displeased Him greatly
He spread His great hand
To permit His handiwork to plunge to the world below
Where it shattered into countless pieces
God sighed
Then stooped
To attempt once again
The birds have vanished into the sky.
I stand at the moonless window, only random fireflies
kindling the somberness. No trace of a pale moon
hiding behind a gossamer cloud, no red-tailed star
—Bleached Bones by Elizabeth Howard
The dog days of summer have steamed on by,
winds of autumn are blowing strong,
storm clouds clustering in the west,
the birds have vanished into the sky.
From the other room, my daughter’s laughter
has the cadence of a hymn, the syntax
of some spell. It makes sense. I’m sure
she still dreams of the un-world, which is
still so near for her. In the cereal
aisle, when she holds my hand, I can feel
a hundred futures thrumming through
the ley lines in her palm. She’ll look up
at me then, with a box of Cheerios
under one arm, while the irises of her eyes
(twin moons over standing stones)
eclipse mine.
Purloined Princes After “Hurt Hawks” by Robinson Jeffers
1.
The speckled stone was white, oblong, a split through the top, hollowed,
Abandoned in my garden weeds, dead stalks,
The ship turned statue, cold, lifeless. He emerged warm, shivering,
A bloody gash: his side caught, squirming
Through stone to free air. I found him, spent, black puddled in shadows, eyes live,
A slitted green-yellow like fall larch,
Proud, pleading, universal S.O.S., though he didn’t speak.
He never spoke in words. I heard it all.
Black velvet sides heaved—I slung him, light burden, home to stitch in life,
Panting under my touch: he was the last,
Escaped from a ruined earth. Four feet, four thumbs, forty built-in tools,
His whisker-thin, white warning grid floating useless,
No signals to tremble it to life. We spoke in looks, touch,
The treble of his voice a song, a mystery.
He’d rest, then fly; but he’d nowhere to fly. Nights, he snuggled between my breasts,
Warmth rumbling waist to neck like the husband I’d longed for,
A sigh shared, loneliness loosing its chokehold as we breathed the same air.
Beautiful and dyed blond
I moved out to explore the forest
a lumberjack beckoned
Once inside his cottage I didn’t notice
all was dished out
and everything in its place
That first man was a boor
he sawed and hammered and nailed
Did I have to spread my legs
try to mend the cleaving
when he said I hadn’t pleased him in bed?
