ignorance of this.
Gardener
I am in love with my womb
& jealous of it.
I cover it tenderly
with a little pink hat
(a sort of yarmulke)
to protect it from men.
Then I listen for the gentle, ping
of the ovary:
a sort of cupid’s bow
released.
I’m proud of that.
& the spot of blood
in the little hat
& the egg so small
I cannot see it
though I pray to it.
I imagine the inside
of my womb to be
the color of poppies
& bougainvillea
(though I’ve never seen it).
But I fear the barnacle
which might latch on
& not let go
& fear the monster
who might grow
to bite the flowers
& make them swell & bleed.
So I keep my womb empty
& full of possibility.
Each month
the blood sheets down
like good red rain.
I am the gardener.
Nothing grows without me.
The Prisoner
The cage of myself clamps shut.
My words turn the lock.
I am the jailor rattling the keys.
I am the torturer’s assistant
who nods & smiles
& pretends not
to be responsible.
I am the clerk who stamps
the death note
affixing the seal, the seal, the seal.
I am the lackey who “follows orders.”
I have not got the authority.
I am the visitor
who brings a cake, baked
with a file.
Pale snail,
I wave between the bars.
I speak of rope with the hangman.
I chatter of sparks & currents
with the electrician.
Direct or alternating,
he is beautiful.
I flatter him.
I say he turns me on.
I tell the cyanide capsules
they have talent
& may fulfill themselves someday.
I read the warden’s awful novel
& recommend a publisher.
I sleep with the dietitian
who is hungry.
I sleep with the hangman
& reassure him
that he is a good lover.
I am the ideal prisoner.
I win prizes on my conduct.
They reduce my sentence.
Now it is only 99 years
with death like a dollop
of whipped cream at the end.
I am so grateful.
No one remembers
that I constructed this jail
& peopled its cells.
No one remembers my blueprints
& my plans,
my steady hammering,
my dreams of fantastic escapes.
& even I,
patiently writing away,
my skin yellowing
like the pages of old paperbacks,
my hair turning gray,
cannot remember the first crime,
the crime
I was born for.
The Other Side of the Page
I pass to the other side of the page .
—Pablo Neruda
On the other side of the page
where the lost days go,
where the lost poems go,
where the forgotten dreams
breaking up like morning fog
go
go
go
I am preparing myself for death.
I am teaching myself emptiness:
the gambler’s hunger for love,
the nun’s hunger for God,
the child’s hunger for chocolate
in the brown hours
of the dark.
I am teaching myself love:
the lean love of marble
kissed away by rain,
the cold kisses of snow crystals
on granite grave markers,
the soul kisses of snow
as it melts in the spring.
On the other side of the page
I lie making a snow angel
with the arcs
of my arms.
I lie like a fallen skier
who never wants to get up.
I lie with my poles, my pens
flung around me in the snow
too far to reach.
The snow seeps
into the hollows of my bones
& the calcium white of the page
silts me in like a fossil.
I am fixed in my longing for speech,
I am buried in the snowbank of my poems,
I am here where you find me
dead
on the her side of the page.
V
FROM
Loveroot
(1975)
To Pablo Neruda
Again & again
I have read your books
without ever wishing to know you.
I suck the alphabet of blood.
I chew the iron filings of your words.
I kiss your images like moist mouths
while the black seeds of your syllables
fly, fly, fly
into my lungs.
Untranslated, untranslatable,
you are rooted inside me—
not you—but the you
of your poems:
the man of his word,
the lover who digs into the alien soil
of one North American woman
& plants a baby—
love-child of Whitman
crossed with the Spanish language,
embryo, sapling, half-breed
of my tongue.
♦
I saw you once—
your flesh—
at Columbia.
My alma mater
& you the visiting
Gardener
I am in love with my womb
& jealous of it.
I cover it tenderly
with a little pink hat
(a sort of yarmulke)
to protect it from men.
Then I listen for the gentle, ping
of the ovary:
a sort of cupid’s bow
released.
I’m proud of that.
& the spot of blood
in the little hat
& the egg so small
I cannot see it
though I pray to it.
I imagine the inside
of my womb to be
the color of poppies
& bougainvillea
(though I’ve never seen it).
But I fear the barnacle
which might latch on
& not let go
& fear the monster
who might grow
to bite the flowers
& make them swell & bleed.
So I keep my womb empty
& full of possibility.
Each month
the blood sheets down
like good red rain.
I am the gardener.
Nothing grows without me.
The Prisoner
The cage of myself clamps shut.
My words turn the lock.
I am the jailor rattling the keys.
I am the torturer’s assistant
who nods & smiles
& pretends not
to be responsible.
I am the clerk who stamps
the death note
affixing the seal, the seal, the seal.
I am the lackey who “follows orders.”
I have not got the authority.
I am the visitor
who brings a cake, baked
with a file.
Pale snail,
I wave between the bars.
I speak of rope with the hangman.
I chatter of sparks & currents
with the electrician.
Direct or alternating,
he is beautiful.
I flatter him.
I say he turns me on.
I tell the cyanide capsules
they have talent
& may fulfill themselves someday.
I read the warden’s awful novel
& recommend a publisher.
I sleep with the dietitian
who is hungry.
I sleep with the hangman
& reassure him
that he is a good lover.
I am the ideal prisoner.
I win prizes on my conduct.
They reduce my sentence.
Now it is only 99 years
with death like a dollop
of whipped cream at the end.
I am so grateful.
No one remembers
that I constructed this jail
& peopled its cells.
No one remembers my blueprints
& my plans,
my steady hammering,
my dreams of fantastic escapes.
& even I,
patiently writing away,
my skin yellowing
like the pages of old paperbacks,
my hair turning gray,
cannot remember the first crime,
the crime
I was born for.
The Other Side of the Page
I pass to the other side of the page .
—Pablo Neruda
On the other side of the page
where the lost days go,
where the lost poems go,
where the forgotten dreams
breaking up like morning fog
go
go
go
I am preparing myself for death.
I am teaching myself emptiness:
the gambler’s hunger for love,
the nun’s hunger for God,
the child’s hunger for chocolate
in the brown hours
of the dark.
I am teaching myself love:
the lean love of marble
kissed away by rain,
the cold kisses of snow crystals
on granite grave markers,
the soul kisses of snow
as it melts in the spring.
On the other side of the page
I lie making a snow angel
with the arcs
of my arms.
I lie like a fallen skier
who never wants to get up.
I lie with my poles, my pens
flung around me in the snow
too far to reach.
The snow seeps
into the hollows of my bones
& the calcium white of the page
silts me in like a fossil.
I am fixed in my longing for speech,
I am buried in the snowbank of my poems,
I am here where you find me
dead
on the her side of the page.
V
FROM
Loveroot
(1975)
To Pablo Neruda
Again & again
I have read your books
without ever wishing to know you.
I suck the alphabet of blood.
I chew the iron filings of your words.
I kiss your images like moist mouths
while the black seeds of your syllables
fly, fly, fly
into my lungs.
Untranslated, untranslatable,
you are rooted inside me—
not you—but the you
of your poems:
the man of his word,
the lover who digs into the alien soil
of one North American woman
& plants a baby—
love-child of Whitman
crossed with the Spanish language,
embryo, sapling, half-breed
of my tongue.
♦
I saw you once—
your flesh—
at Columbia.
My alma mater
& you the visiting
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