Today I will be Phragmites, the many-bodied,
pale reeds lifting skyward
from the scalp of Tiana Bay.
I will be the beach wheat
un-harvested in the morning,
long hair eager for the comb.
It will be good to be Phragmites,
life that springs where water pauses,
in the glare of afternoon
when water swells against my strands.
I will be the oracle slipping snakelike in the breeze
as sand-scribes take my lines.
An acropolis of ants attends my offerings:
dead horseshoe crabs,
stones left for interpretation.
Subjects crave my many gifts.
In my stems:
They do not know what waits inside my fence—
how much I want to bow to the sand;
Yes. Today I will be Phragmites,
Rush-goddess, until evening falls
and minnows press beneath my power.
Then I will rustle like a flourish of notes
in an untuned wind
and call flatly to be enfleshed.
Published by Aldrich Publishing