Where the Water Grows --

here, the devils gone wandering, the

hirsute terror, ironbound; pure, the

doubt that would not fail; these

visions, straddled

and obscure -- there, in

the distance, it

is the wind in the reed, there

is a prophet calling

out through the salt marshes

and into our lives, uncertain

of his steps, ready

to confront the drunken Monarch, He

who would wait

with Curled Fist and

fire-Eyes . . . These

desperate Girls, here, dance

the tarantella, pressing

their backs against the wall counting

all the ways in

which they have been Wronged -- It is

here that Night descends, bringing

with it a sweet smell, the

smell of Cedar, Sandalwood, and Pine -- Why

must we wait, shuttered here,

together biding our time

until the next whirlwind shakes

the leaves

off the trees and into our laps? -- it

is an iron-omission, a

sudden lapse, the heart gone clenched

in a feathered breast -- dreaming

of gulls, sparrows, and terns, all

legs expired

from the long race; -- We

never

give in, we straddle the

fool's paradise

we have created . . . We wait

with a silver impunity

bequeathed of the gods; there, those

sullen

ogres and grueling warlocks, the

Sandman in the wood, the

Monstrosity that is our collected breath -- We

form

Unions of head

and Soul, stretched thin

in a dense

atmosphere; there, where

the hand

draws bloodlines across the page, ushering

in another

age of

adolescence, a second

growth, a

hankering for

justice in the Caves; there, where we

can meet

the elders

and instill in our bones the

necessary Steel -- we go to War

blinded

by too much information, standing

together

in a red dawn, knees inching forward

with a slow

Surge; there, it is the

Enemy, the

bloodless One, the unknown Spectre

Vague

in desert blues -- With

foul hands

he breaks bread with

holy soldiers

lined and tense, Warriors

Who faint

from fear

before the gathering Sun -- where is this King, the

oblique

one, how is it that

he has left us children alone

to struggle

through our Underbrush? -- way down

in Caverns

dripping Ice, an old hand bends

to the earth, up-

rooting Moss

and watery soil, incanting

unheard prayers

for

the living and the dead -- it

is the

supple line of her leg

that draws

him in, here, out

of the heat -- a quiet

redemption borne of an unsure Piety, a

faith

crossing rivers

and submerged -- What

can we do, then, We, who are Unarmed, listless

and exhausted?

(Shall we Wait again for our Next Messiah, the

Saviour saddled with our Pains, the

good God caring for

his sons and daughters?) -- These

Nights are long

with tense discussion -- Who shall

lead the charge, what

weapons will we use, how does the

maul fell the tree

in a single stroke, the old King stringing

the Arrow through

the axe-heads -- We have

returned, our

Heads held high, our Coronation fears

left shallow

in the wind -- We

will build

a young choir of astute bodies

to shoulder

the heights of disrepute and vilify

our neighbors -- We

are Lost

in shallow sight, our lungs

parched

from breathing salty air and resuming

again

in the moving tide -- We are

the culture of pressed-flesh, the

yielding

struggle of the newborn, We

gain our

Legs and talk for the first time, We

utter our

sprung melodic with

a sudden shake

of our Mane, we gather there, with

those devils

who have come to die

in the autumn leaves -- We

burst

through our initiation into battle pure with

fire -- Here she

bends to us, this Holy Sister, great

Spirit, she

holds our hand -- Her beauty

so immense

we cannot look at her but feel her at

our side, our Grey-Eyed Athena, our Trust -- We

who will wait for you

know what

our hearts are worth, we lay

them on the

table

for observation, we climb your

structured-bones

into

a higher ground, there, where

we can

lay together breathing inch by inch

the execution

of our former selves -- There, now

the prophet

falls, his is

a lapsed opinion, we

must track our way into the crags, feet

bruised

by the infinite snake -- You, then,

how do you Stand, now

that the silver dollars have all been Spent, now

that wishing

makes it So, can

You give her the gift she deserves, She

who brought you

into this Earth to run beneath the clouds, eyes

clenched, interring

your foregone conclusions

with proper burial rites, the

supple

guideropes leading you

to the next

aisle where you will meet

your Mistress, the

golden-girl

now stilted and arcane? -- She, this

lovelorn

Creature who will bask in an ocean spray

of her own divining

will

always love you, in times

of peace and times of War, she

is your shepherd, she

will set you

a table, She will lean into you and sigh

with

a soft Surrender, sure

of her lines,

ready for your Return --

*