The Ornithologist and the Poet in the Evil Emperor’s Garden
You are awful, promising only you would
But your head isn’t in danger; mine is.
declare all that you see, in phrases
A golden leaf shows clearly its rot. There!
flecked like plumage, brandished words,
Even the emperor’s pool has a deeper surface.
when we need overt blaring of the truth,
Before I tell you, your head’s impenetrable;
words, you know, that have a bite.
you smile. You know everything
We’re dealing here with an evil emperor,
for this empire, for the world. You know,
whose whims, or plans, are ruining the garden,
the vulture in the tree of life, so to speak?
the vulture in the tree of life. So, to speak,
Whose whims or plans are ruining the garden?
for this empire, for the world... You know?
We’re dealing here with an evil emperor,
You smile? You know everything,
words, you know, that have a bite,
before I tell you, your head, impenetrable.
when we need overt blaring. Of the truth,
Even the emperor’s pool has a deeper surface;
flecked like plumage, brandished words
a golden leaf shows clearly its rot there.
declare all that you see in phrases.
But your head isn’t in danger; mine is.
You are awful, promising. Only you would.
The Tree of Life
She bent over the cloth on her lap.
Her small hand worked the needle.
In the tree’s heart, a rose called Tudor,
and, liking her cats, she embroidered
a yellow one on a large, lion scale,
a turquoise bead for its peering eye;
made another, a wary-eyed leopard.
“Sit up straight, Mary.”
“Yes, Mother.”
The cats’ claws floated above the grass.
A silken sky relieved the ancient blue.
Rabbits and wild strawberries romped
along the lower border, a dark stream,
where all the fish called out, “Here am I.”
She’d dreamed about living in the Garden of Eden.
She loved all that God conjured with His Hands.
Butterflies she imagined square,
half-a-cat size, as butterfly lovers
would have them. They ate of the tree,
its cornflowers and blueberries, its
cotton bolls and pink carnations. No apples.
She didn’t mean to mock or scoff God’s work.
She wouldn’t go near His apple tree.
Her field was golden, a way to work,
a delight in seeds and size, moiré,
insects and light-footed proportions
through long and short and stem stitch,
filling stitch and tear drop loops.
Her breath came in gasps with each stitch.
She shivered at Eve’s fall from the Garden.
Its contours. The same found in tails
as in stream and roots, vine and stem,
in leaves, curled and as slithering
as a path in prayer, curving, winding,
like her own finger around the needle.
She disguised the snake, even from herself.
She made it splendid, golden, tall, like a tree.
