Spells

 

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Ultrafeminine

I wish you could come into my world

dream bowl of images I conjure up.

Fruit, seeds and fire; the mirror sunk into my eyes

hurls reflections back at the world, and we are

born along the Mediterranean in the strong rift of ships.

 

My ship, and yours.

Part of the pleasure I’ve chosen

in the age of twenty-three, inhabiting women’s places

the fluid lands, full of sun songs, oriental-baked,

humble and authentic as a sun statue you pray to:

my tiny figure, grown large

in the land of giant women,

re-imagining the world

from an age of gold to silver.

 

Cleopatra

who was ready with the oils

to pleasure her innocent victims.

Cleopatra

who spoke seven languages –

seven voices in seven tongues

you heard about in a woman from afar

worshipping to appear at her altar.

 

I guess you fear you have not

conquered me, but how does one conquer

a concubine? Not born of flesh, but spirit.

For each night I return to your side to wander,

as if through a garden that returns to me in dreams.

 

Your garden

and mine – part of the vision I’m carrying,

hung-heavy and intoxicating,

as I raise the swimming moon

to my lips.

 

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Ra

I would happily call him Ra, and

worship him. China blue, azure blue,

when I am still, I see the whole world

spinning around; see my maiden days turning

into waxen years and you, the spoke that

turns my arms.

 

The world of tall lights and planes is

so very far away. Pluto’s gone

for another age it seems. Divined, I’ve been

your woman for so long, some mornings I awake

to that strange clock in the mountains;

a reminder of lives gone by, Autumns dead

and lived; spin the wheel, spin us some extra time.

 

Am I such a mystery to you and do

you want to keep turning? Always turning

away from darkness and towards light.

Just as a bird, following the sun

around the garden dreams her maiden flight,

my open arms – constellating – trail the sky.

 

World dizzy, thumping circadian rhythms

tread through the night; starry,

to the east where your summer pastures lie.

 

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Villanelle

Honey, again.

Tangible body with light streaming out.

Roundness because I deserve

a circular return to the point of origin.

 

Honey again seeds are falling from the sky

in defiance of that solitary time when

everything was buried underground.

 

Under concrete.

Under avenues shallower than a horse’s flank

dark and muscular

a woman remembers.

 

Up there in the floating world

where all love is indivisible

I cried for days over the passing of the body I was

into another constellation

a woman remembers.

 

The swirling at the centre.

A dark horse returning like Venus,

familiar.

 

Honey, again.

Dripping from the sky in defiance of that solitary time

when everything was buried underground.

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Seed Sowing

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Exorcism of Winter

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