Three Strings, Tied
String: After a Woman of Age
Forget the foundation, the perfume,
the slimming A-line.
Let the skin speak for itself,
blossom of blotches, savory scent,
the flab between shoulder and elbow, the undertow.
Forget the unconstitutional passions of youth,
the metaphysical cloak, the dagger of madness.
Live the exposition —
the ache, the growl, the slobber,
the nest of the scrub jay by the door,
the four hatchlings, their full-throated longing,
their want of this secret called living.
String: After “ Postcards to Samsara” by Lois P Jones
How does a word break the heart?
Shatter the brittle thing against
the curves of “p” and “g” —
The angles of “w.”
Alliteration blasts into that which beats within,
warping into a slithery question
marked by wonder,
imagination billboarded:
How far must the past go to reach the future?
How does a star light a moon?
What came first — demise, faith, or confusion?
In the dustpan of the ages,
scooped from story beyond dimension,
the heart shards glitter
an illumination,
a woman weeping.
String: After Song
She wanted to think that birdsong and waterfalls would be her choice, the running soundtrack that would spread across her doings like perpetual spring. But she knew how she would come to ignore even those wonders if they played a loop in her mind. She needed shifts, unexpected beats, an occasional siren, the clang of church bells, the crash of a breaking heart on a fragile floor. She needed echoes, raised voices, the rev of an engine to itch her ire. Even those damn leaf blowers, to remind her of the potential foolishness of invention and of what might get hurt along the way.
