Thursday, February 11, 2016

February 11 -- Grace Marie Grafton

The Dragon and the Phoenix

Neither male nor female, both lovers have
wings. Still believe in
the moon's animal-like
shift through trees
as the basic wood of reality.
How the Pacific surf gnarls
ears and noses into the sandstone
it washes, day and night.
How the turtle hides under the glyphs
of its shell and sings
mud into being.

Don't explain yourself, Lover.
I don't want to see your teeth.
You have admired 
my pomegranate lipstick,
the scarlet tear painted on my cheek,
the redolent hue of my tangerine horns.
I have admired the harlequin pattern
on your breasts, thrilled
to your claws' scrape
on my featherless hide.

We won't think of the future.
I won't think of you losing your
feathers or growing the stone
in your craw.
You won't hear my dry night cough
or notice the peeling patch
on my skin.
Let's drag the folding chairs
out to the mushroom field.

How the epiphytic Spanish moss
snares the live oak trees in the canyon,
how the hoarfrost congeals
on the wild oat stems
to break, finally, what it regales.
Seeds have fallen.
Beauty is wanton.

                   to Julie Bamberger's "The Final Romance"

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