ISSUE: Winter 1985
Who shall measure the heat
and violence of the poet’s heart
when caught and tangled
in a woman’s body?
In nightgown white
surrounded by the crickets’ wet silence
There was either no roof
or I could see through it
the sky violet flamingo cerulean I see now
it was Butterfly
a platform for decorative emotion
Living with my children is Punch and Judy
The sky is red meat cut too close
to the bone
My clam heart is sealed
If we drove to the molten silver lake
sat on the edge of it
If we went to the museum
where there was one quilt
of a thousand pieces and
all the important rusted tools
I would not need to remember
the street canopied with rouge leaves
the mothers in the afternoon
watchful on their steps
while the babies fell slowly
as the leaves
were entreated to the ground
