Dancing to two Musics « Back
(New Mexico, 1998)


I have New Mexico under my fingernails like dirt from the garden.
I smell it rich, fragrant and earthy. Its light is in my hair.
Its clouds float through the blue vault of my mind.
Your voice echoes in the canyon of the past.


I go to you with finches in a cage and beer in a bottle.
I was an apprentice, grinding gristle of the heart,
Feeding you love without prudence.


I hold onto my name with my teeth.
Birds hold their wings out to brush my face
softly and to hold your yes toward my
hands buried in the flesh of my chest.


The house if failing under the strain,
the buttresses, cracking of plaster,
notice the rain.
I remember the delicate red tulip
of your glans,
the seal shaped mole on your back,
the delicate flicker on the tree of your tongue.
I waited for the silence of your
hands to end.
I grasped tightly.


Your eyes.
You end the conversation abruptly,
clinch my face in your hand,
pull on my face.
I hear a wailing hallow behind me.


Tape your milagro to your hand,
I say recognizing the furrow of your sorrow.


I sat still.
I watched as she very carefully stitched
the tiny cross stitches into my heart.
She counted meticulously the veins,
in, out and in,
then a few chain stitches
from my heart to yours
were snipped.
She cut them quickly with sharp scissors,
making sure the pain would not go on.
These stitches made pictures-flowers and tears.


A flock
of yellow headed blackbirds
light in the willows.
I dance two musics - to the tune of your loving
To the tune of my leaving.
You want to touch me.
You're a pretty little girl.
I crave to touch
but try to miss the edges of my lust.

I close the drawer
with the lock of hair.
Put it away.

I will not love someone
who can not gentle his voice.
You are too drunk to talk.
Gentle your voice.
Put it softly on the table in front of you.

You are a New Mexico rabbit
starving because you won't eat lettuce.
Dry grass only will do.