The trills of a Spanish guitar,
bitten by a syncopated rhythm,
drive into my body.
My entrada, my entrance has come.
I have waited years for this—
and I enter in an eight-panel cobalt skirt,
black leotard, nailed shoes,
the pale-haired dancer in the mirror of dark women
There was a proper Ladybug who loved to smile and stare
at her beautiful reflection. She thought she was as rare
and pretty as a wild rose – especially her spots.
Easel, thin neck stretching like an egret,
The charcoal dust that clings and covers skin,
Undersketch, a painting’s tattooed secret
He told me my assignment and gave me
strictest instructions on what I should do:
“Set up a still-life. Squint so you can see
I remember the first time I saw it
in the home of a friend, above a laquered table —
a drawing of the holy sites of Israel.
Every detail was a Hebrew word,
shaped to form the landscape.
Words Wandering in an Irish Forest
were stopped by three Celtic priests.
First, a druid
My uncle brought me the skin of trees
as an empty manuscript—
As the concert began,
and the bass drew a long breath,
you thought I was sitting next to you—
Naked and new,
still in the white—
unvarnished and unadorned
the cello lies
on the birthing table
in the maker’s studio—