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DROUGHT
(Niger, Africa)
The old woman remembers
the look of rain:
drops coming down
to wash the face.
Did it really
rain here?
Did she walk to school,
her hair drowning?
The rain was hard,
could flood,
be mud-colored,
be in time for the growing season,
be full of rainbows.
But that's gone now.
the cattle do not talk.
Their tongues
are thick,
past thirst.
They drop their bones.
The children not yet dying,
pull at their mothers'
skirts, ask
for rain-talk,
ask for words made
into rain.
They lick their fingers,
mouths,
breasts,
whatever's moist.
The flies come.
THE PAINTER
drops
her cloth
along
the water's edge
gone
the rocks
the tide
pools
the fish-shack
cafe
the cat
still napping
a boy runs
without sounds
nothing
asks to be remembered.
LILIES OF THE NILE
They come trailing softness
like ladies at a garden
party: slim, full of colors,
tall as summer drinks;
they spin, twirl, ripple, dip;
they peer through flirty fans
at handsome blooms across the yard.
They cavort a bit
but will not stay. One week,
two, and they lose interest.
I plead, "Other lilies on this street
stay for two months or more.
Why can't you?"
They shiver.
I give them water.
The sun sends down its warmth.
They yawn, droop,
cannot maintain an upright posture.
"Please stay," I say feebly.
They sway.
They whimper, do not even
say good-bye.
But I hear one whisper
as she fades:
"Thank God, it's over.
I'm exhausted. She seems
to think we are common daisies
willing to perform forever."
MUSIC FROM A WOMAN
(Harriet Schock, composer)
A face that listens
in hues
that artists use to catch
the light.
And when she sings
sounds soft
as dust motes
coming down.
She lifts
thin skins
to see what's left
of what used to be,
and love is there:
old, betrayed,
given
and forgotten.
The night loosens
until each listener is perfect
And it's all right
to move
into another time
with someone else imagined
or remembered.
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