The Carpathians - University of British Columbia

the farthest branch of its first fruit. Still, I think
inside that old woman I never knew was a stone
as there was inside my mother. Cherries,
she would cry, cherries, and I would go to her
if I could, my mouth a rich purple and speak to her of the hills
and the solitary lark beyond the wysteria
that is as real as the knife she holds as she peels
the skin I wear like a shroud, whispering through whatever
blood
there is: you must eat child, you must eat.
Held Water
I have discovered I cannot bear to be
with people anymore. Even the querulous love of old
friends
defeats me and I turn away, my face staring
at the hard sleet
scraping at what little is left of the trees
in early spring. The bellied pods of the wysteria hold
my face, upside down
in minute mirrors of held water. Ice falls from the eaves.
The telephone rings and like a monk I chant to myself
the many names of whatever gods I can find
in the temple bells of the hidden voices. I know
under the rotting snow there are small flowers
like insistent girls giggling in narrow attic beds,
and yes,
I know the flowers are not girls, just as
I know that what resemblance there is is lost
in the ordinary crying we think we will release
and don't. The little furred pods of the wysteria crack open
dropping the mirrors from their blue hands.
Ice slides from the roof and for a moment the air is torn.
I think if I wasn't afraid
I could play back the sounds of my friends,
the measure of their voices
almost steady in the hard wind out of the north.
Little flawed bells.
If I didn't hear them I could almost listen.