In Love With Language, For Wuji

  

He was a man

who was bursting

with effusive poems,

a boundless outpouring

of ornate articulation.


He fell in love

with a poetess,

a skilled doyenne 

of his cherished art.


His garrulous lines

sparked with passion

for her careful starkness

of expression.

His pointed declarations

yearned for the soft edges

of her sinuous metaphors.

His pen,

engorged with ink,

burned

to mark

her page.


All poets 

are essentially 

in love 

with language.


Our poetry

is birthed

from the ecstatic romance

of our lovemaking

with words.

Oestrus, This Birth

 

 I made love to the desert,

to the pinyon pines,

to juniper smoke and dried lavender,

planted my seeds there

in the springtime snow.


I sang to blue cornmeal

and Mother Spirits.

I danced to the gnarled riffs of blues guitar,

cradled myself in the music of bluegrass hymns,

slept with the ancestors, 

huddled in woven blankets.

We laughed through hardships,

warmed our hearts with stories.


We were native to each other.


Wildflowers 

of a graceful future 

blossomed from my womb,

intrepid dreams with deep bulbs

for roots.


I left these plantings,

these beautiful parts of myself,

like frozen buds,

there, on tribal land,

at the peak 

of a sacred mountain.


They tended to themselves 

in my absence.

They grew, 

with inchoate longings.


They were souls

that shimmered in the high desert starry night sky

waiting to be formed

by the magic 

of love.


They were medicine spells cast 

like lines

in the subtle poetry 

of the otherworld.


This year,

destiny bloomed,

a green shoot

in springtime.

The seed of your body 

nestling inside my rich and fertile ground;

my sweet scent 

of geraniums flooding your senses.

I am thawed,

warmed

by your raging heat.


This birth

will come

to be.