FLAMING AUM

It's a conspiracy,
someone said,
but I've done this myself.
I'm collecting things.
Drowning in stuff.
Clinging to memories while
packing and repacking
what
I'll surely leave behind
when the big whatever
has its way with this corporeal
sensibility,
when I no longer identify with this body
when I no longer believe my emotions
are me
and when I'm no longer worried
about missing a call.

So I'm phoning aum
on my imaginary
gold-plated phone.
Wondering when I signed on
the dotted line
for this disease of busyness.
Trying to remember where I put that day,
that hour
that memory of how I first met love
on the back porch.

I'm packing it up.
Throwing some out.
Labeling the way
for the great unpacking
when it all turns to dust,
floats away,
and burns.
Cashed in
on the illusion
that anything
or anyone
is guaranteed.


UPON FINDING THEIR BODIES

Upon finding their bodies spent
Ashen burnt
Bent like century juniper

They'll uncover the mystery
Of weight
With backpacks strapped on
Taken by the dunes
Holding blank bodies
And volumes of poetry

Perhaps one day
They'll uncover the cached water
And Neruda's Stone and Sky

Perhaps they'll ask why
Such men traveled
With almonds in their pockets

And travel packs stuffed
Voluminous, with Mary Oliver,
Robinson Jeffers, and Edward Abbey.

Upon finding their bodies
Discarded among chapters dog-eared
And underlined

They'll ask how poetry could feed
A hungry soul
How miles of sand dunes

Could make soft the calluses
Worn by thumbs
Turning and turning

Speckled ink
Making gibberish of snakes
Yet calling Raven closer

To scuttle and tear
Digits off tattered hands-
Disregarding the gear they carried

With More poetry than maps
More verse than liquid
More paper than food

CLOUD HIAKU

Never having flown myself,
I'm unable to judge
which bird has the most agility
which bird
has the most sincere wingspan.

It's best not to judge
I remind myself.
It's best
not to compare.

Never having flown myself,
I am grounded
and watching clouds write haiku
without regard to where the wind
will take them.

They do not judge what shape is better
or worse.
They are content to drift,
Ricocheting as gusts of laughter.

A bird
never doubts its place
at the center
of the universe.


DELICATA

What is it like? To be sliced
open
after all the time you spent
attached
- by stem and root.
Only to be severed by turning
hand of your maker.

What is it like? To have seeds scraped
out
by a spoon and
thrown in the trash.
Do you feel your insides when
they are gone?

What is it like? To be exposed
to oxygen and sunlight
for the very first time -
only to be steamed and eaten.

I hold the blade.
I watch you perspire.
Watery veins pulsing with life,

What is it like?


TUNING FORKS

a small rivulet of space opens
on the island of joy
without fences

it's reaching out
waiting for someone to say
hello

she reaches out
measuring the distance of her
index finger with the horizon

she is standing on the rock of joy
and he is the door
no fence to hold the flame

she is the window
through which
the light can be seen

the path between them
is sinew twined
a place to climb

a halo of water
surrounds them
this island

no fences
the horizon is her palm
the sun a bright persimmon

the whole world moves
as it always does, shifting
from one foot to the other

she can catch the moon and
swallow water like a silver fish
moving in syncopation

building the distance between
bodies a small rivulet opens
she is holding her breath

eyes closed
waiting for something to slip
takes a desperate breath

and the whole world moving
as it does
she's a passing slice

the past running circles around
her feet and kicking up dust
the blur of landscape

the smell of jackrabbit's tail
nothing is clear
joy running

out of breath
sinew twined
a place to climb

she is auburn hair
flames lick her feet
she reaches out

her palm is the horizon
no fences waiting for someone
to say hello


By Celeste Labadie