Poet of the Month
Homage to Watts Towers
I hear you shift toward the sun on warm afternoons
and settle back in the chill of evening,
a spiraled labyrinth on a California street.
Do you miss the solitary touch of Sabato Rodia's hands
on your steel core, your mortared antlers,
your mosaicked heart of Malibu tiles and broken glass?
You know, they say you were the muse
that seduced him from alcohol's despair.
And on days when you dance with the wind,
you shed bits of color in his memory.
Prayer for Twelfth Night
Call for cardamom,
and with this queen of spices
and milk and honey
steep my heart
that its sound may then
become a murmuration,
one with the songbirds,
moving on and on
into unknown territories,
seasoned and simmered
under winter moon.
Call also for red currants,
and with this berried juice
henna my regrown hands
that they may hold again
whom and what I love.