Monday, January 03, 2005

For Diane Wakoski a Golden Sunday to Erase the Blue Monday

Gold of the river of honey sliding down her throat
and pooling in her belly.
gold of the hay
that covers farmer’s fields in day
gold of her tongue
that savors the slice of mango
and slides across the skin.
gold of the tiny hands with ruffled cuffs
cradling the emerald heart
encircling her neck like a snake
at the market/melons firm under her hands
and the sun dancing over her head a
wash of silken threads.

Golden Sunday, Sunday at 7:00 and
Sunday at 12, Sunday at 5:00 and
Sunday at 11:00. Sunday sped by the quiet
city park. Sunday together
an amber stone quietly glowing.

We are alive: humming with sound.
We cannot be contained. Our bodies prisms
break into shards of light and dart around the room.

Sunday is the last day of the weekend
and we think of it all week.
we pray for Sunday to come
so that we can be together
all day.

You paint my body gold on the grass
in the shiny glaring day, you paint me
with sunlight and the petals
the petals
the petals
the petals of your lips separate
the day, exposing the feathers of swans
and my face, the gold of saffron
and my neck, the gold of marmalade
and my breasts, the gold of apples
and my arms, corn-gold
and my stomach, honey.

there is tension dropping from me like acorns
there is anger dropping from me I do not need-like thorns

or nettles swept into the gutter.

Reason passes me in a shirtwaist dress
and apron.
Her broom is plastic and filled with
cake mixes and Tang…
She wears pink
spike heels
and hairspray. Her hair is so hard
it’s almost gold.

“Reason, “ I said.
“Excuse me,” she said.
“Mrs. Reason,” I said.
“Excuse me,” she said.

So I saw there was no sense confronting her in the

Reason passed me in the kitchen in a pink
shirtwaist dress. She was a housewife
I could tell.

So gold bees buzz by my open eyes.
Gold coins plop into my lap.
Gold light hums in my
veins and sends satin
slipping into my pores.
Gold nuggets fill
my sweet mouth and gold fibers
enmesh my heart. Gold balls roll
and tumble in my hands.
Gold life fills my soul.

If I could dance one more dance
with light crackling around my feet
I would dance with my legs on fire
the golden heart pulsing that yellow bright beat
and my hips
would flicker with liquid flame
burning in my womb.
life multiplying
in my body. At last my blood
molten and swimming into the air.

It is golden.
It is golden.
It is golden.

1 comment:

Donica said...

wow... this is beautiful. how optimistic. thank you for this.