Four Feet Above Her Head

Four feet above her head the ceiling, white
And stippled with those dark uneven dots,
Concealed the sun, the moon, the chimney pots,
The face of Ra, the Sun God, by whose might
The day begins again after the night
Descends, four feet above her head; the knots
She finds in her dark hair, the bloody spots
She thinks about now — nothing turns out right.

She thinks about her life, her heart, her bed,
The darkness. In the sky, some old stars glow
The same as they were doing long ago,
But everything grows old now. Tears she shed
Dimmed what she saw. Four feet above her head
The clamour passed, the wilting stars hung low.

Response to Prayer

You think you’re free, but no one’s really free.
The will is compromised, it has no space
To move, to loaf around but, to save face,
We let you think your faith and constancy
Gets you the truth. But truth and falsity
Can’t be distinguished from the humble place
You occupy. There’s no wisdom, no grace,
No understanding. We’re a mystery.

But what’s the point of falling on your knees?
I’ll rise to Heaven in my chariot
While you can be the rogue Iscariot,
Rich for a day, fulfilling prophesies
Through fear and ignorance. I’m such a tease,
I’ve got you tangled in my lariat.

Two Flowers

Two flowers grace my garden by the door:
The cabbage rose, the lovely rose de mai,
And dreamy daffodils. Once there were more,
But we have cleared the ground of stones and clay,
So that the roses can survive harsh nights
And dry days, heralding their showy pinks.
The stem bends, then the shadowy thorn bites,
In spite of beauty. Everybody thinks,
“Those daffodils, in crowds that glow and bloom,
Will soothe and succour us as we inhale,”
But they invade our kitchen, our bedroom,
And everywhere we try to hide, we fail.
The daffodil is only a narcissus,
Leaving us bleeding as it tries to kiss us.