It’s Just the Starting Place

It’s just the starting place, a hollow in
the grass, a place to lay myself under

the tree. I was made here, this is my home.
I tell this to the two mouths of my body

and the rivers between them. Paradise
is the body become a lens for the light

to rush through, silver flesh, phosphorus bones.
The planet turning inward to know itself.

I leave everything I have to you—dirt
and dust. Make what you can of me. I was

born here, return me to grass lullabies,
the black tea of creation. O broken-rib earth,

red orb in the tree, I touch you, my fruit,
my flesh. I eat you, my forbidden.

Still, the Red Rag of Desire

Still, the red rag of desire, even after
so many years, fending off the lords of

shut-up and kneel down. Black cat of more.
Legs have their own destination,

entanglements. And I can finally say,
I’m tired, why not? of fertility. Flesh

basket, wineskin, sponge, milk spout, swollen anchor.
Too water soaked, lust soaked. Birthing always

even when nothing is there, nothing
but squat and spirit, how all the answers

come like that, through a woodland womb, dense, wet
with the wind’s slippery body.

Time to birth what isn’t there, time to cry out,
rip open, bloody with the unknown.

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Copyright 2007, Anne Marie Macari.
 All Rights Reserved by Author.