On the Lawn, Boulder, Summer 1982
Tremblay has his mike held for her to talk into at her leisure.
I’m sitting where I can see her and catch her eye once or twice.
Tremblay asks questions. She answers fully. She has presence
the she-wolf can send to rescue a coyote in the middle of nowhere.
She rises and starts off. I watch. She looks back, ten years older
than the name she says looking back again, smiling, her head
doing a swan’s dip before turning to walk away and I can’t move.
I go home and read her book. I get down on all four legs. I travel.
For Maria Teresa, 7 January 2011
We share who we are, according to the names of others–
husbands, wives, lovers, the rest of those who have no names
you can count on to come back, or to go where we need to go.
Another capsule of grief. Take it with water. You don’t need
any more happiness. It never lasts. As for me, I love only you,
woman who eats fire, breathes flames I tongue between your lips.
Don’t tell me the fire’s out, honey, if we’re not even close to home
and the night is dark enough to light the way with our four eyes.
(6 January 2011)
copyright 2011 by Floyce Alexander