USA

lucyday@earthlink.net

IDENTITY

I've tried, but been unable, to locate mine
at the health museum, amid blood cells,
organs and bones. Neither can I find it
at The Gap or Molly B's, shopping for clothes.

Looking in the mirror, I certainly can't see it.
I'm sure it's younger than that lanky woman,
old enough to have had a crush on Elvis,
but smiling like she thinks she's seventeen.

God forbid that it should be in my insomnia,
talking to itself while everyone sleeps,
or in my obsessive behavior, checking five times
to see if the oven is off, before it can leave.

I don't think it's a gift bestowed by others--
a bright red package with a silver bow--
or in my quickened pulse on Sunday morning
when my lover and I remove our clothes.

I've looked for it in my poems, but can only
find it there in bits and pieces, never complete.
I hope it's like a mountain river, leaping
over boulders, swift flowing, in love with the sea.

I WANT TO PUT YOU IN A POEM
For Richard

I want to put you in a poem,
not just the way your touch
makes all my neurons ripple

like kelp in an ocean inside me,
or trees and grass stroked
by wind on a cliff in my brain.

I want to put you in a poem
with your own low pulse,
the heartbeat of a swimmer,

blue-green eyes aglitter,
but your crooked toes won’t stay
in the cage of this poem,

the second one on each foot
arching its back like a cat,
the second right one shunning

its neighboring big toe
as you sit barefoot, listening
to Bach, in your rosy chair.

When you ask me which
interpretations I like better,
I root for the harpsichord.

Then you offer me chocolate,
wiggling your toes, which march
exultantly beyond the page.

I LOOKED FOR A POEM
For Richard

I looked for a poem
in the garden of the restaurant
where we ate dinner.
Perhaps it was in my penne with scallops
or in the dressing of the Caesar salad we shared.

I looked for a poem
at the bookstore where I read my poems.
Perhaps it was in the sixteen eyes
of the people listening
or in the brain of Manfred, the Saint Bernard
snoozing on the floor.

I looked for a poem
at the inn surrounded by oaks and bay laurels.
Perhaps it was in one of the paintings:
the woman praying on a leaf,
the one sleeping in a snail shell,
or the tree with breasts.

I looked for a poem
on the floral sofa where we read,
heads at opposite ends,
feet at each other's shoulders.
Perhaps it was in the warmth of your hand
stroking my leg.

I looked for a poem
in the loft where we slept
under a skylight, framing a gibbous moon.
Perhaps it was in the wings of the avian mermaid
circling above us
or in the paintings of flowers
ringing the room.

I looked for a poem
in your crooked toes and muscular legs
when we made love on Saturday morning.
Perhaps it was in the way you knelt above me,
eyes closed, as though in prayer.

I looked for a poem
in the orange juice we drank
and the croissant you rejected at breakfast
because it was too buttery.
Perhaps it was in the butter
I spread on mine, or in the aroma of coffee
rising from the white urn.

I looked for a poem
on the wooden walls of the shower.
Perhaps it was in the shower hose,
which kept detaching,
or in the beads of water adorning your skin.

I looked for a poem
at the fair where I ate a tostada
and listened to a Mariachi band.
Perhaps it was in the way you disappeared
to look at books, or between
the lines of the one you gave me:
Dreams of Love and Fateful Encounters:
the Power of Romantic Passion.

I looked for a poem
on the path to Shell Beach,
where we discussed the mating habits
of barnacles, banana slugs, and trees.
Perhaps it was in the sperm
of the maidenhair ferns
stirring under the redwoods, or in the calls
of warblers, piercing the air.

I looked for a poem
in the sentence you asked me to write
in the guest book: "It was lovely to stay
in such a personal space,
watched over by the mermaid--
the Motel 6 of our dreams."

Perhaps it was in our labored decision
to change "the Motel 6 of our dreams"
to "a magical eyrie."
Perhaps it was in the sunlight.
Perhaps it was everywhere.

SOLSTICE BONFIRE

When Belenus blazes
into the sea, and the last
pink and gold reflections
fade from tide-washed sand,
let us build a bonfire
to celebrate the longest day
the way the Celts did--
with a burning man
garlanded with yellow flowers,
St.-John's-wort.

Of course, our man is made of wood
and we haven't saved
animal bones all year
for this occasion,
but we can purify ourselves
by burning sage
while stars bloom profusely
and the moons of Taranis
line up in a plane.

Let men leap over the flames
while black-tailed deer disappear
beyond the dunes,
gray foxes nab jack rabbits,
and great horned owls bow and hoot.

Pass the wine! Let us celebrate
Ogmios, Brigit, and the Matronae
holding their children
and baskets of fruit.
Remember Lug of the Long Hand,
god of the arts. Stoke the fire!
In my red dress I'll dance
in the smoke and sparks,
led by the drum
of my pagan heart.

"Solstice Bonfire" appeared in Infinities, but have not appeared in any print or on-line journals.

WILDFLOWERS AND WHALES

Buttercups, cream cups, sun cups--
luscious as their names--
hug a meadow
high above the sea.

White and yellow clusters gleam
amid purple pussy ears,
wild hyacinths
and seaside daisies.

Far below, a gray whale cow
swims north, calf tucked
close to her shore side,
where killer-whale

sonar can't detect it.
Powerful muscles
squirt milk into snout;
the baby gains nine pounds

in one hour of nursing.
Together, cow and calf
dip beneath the surface,
their bodies forming

graceful arcs. They rise
again, fountains
fanning from blowholes
into salt-laced air.

And who can say
what impossible poppies
with satiny petals
unfold in a whale's brain,

what iris petals, etched
with nectar guides,
blow there? And what puny
human on the cliff

can prove this cow doesn't hear
a haunting song
in her inner ear, and hum
it to her little one with love?

"Wildflowers and Whales" appeared in Infinities, but have not appeared in any print or on-line journals.

© All Copyright, Lucille Lang Day.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.