13 September 2009

Lynne Thompson

[from Lynne Thompson's Beg No Pardon, Perugia Press, 2007]

A Sorceress Strolls New Grass

I am neither mother nor turquoise neckwear
but you are such young women,
such new potatoes, and there is much
for me to tell you:

     that bishops joyride in the dead of night,
     that blue's favorite color is blue
     and earth is just a gaudy paragraph.

And though I am ripe as November, I can tell you

     no sorceress ever abandons midday
     and a sculptor is always better
     in a waterbed.

Of course, I'm vainglorious with my knowing and croaking --

but you women are writing your own Book of Migration
and without warning, I feel useless as an empty valise.
What you know makes the bandicoot fly and you converse
in flamingo and seashell, smell like smoke and rapscallions.

     You are tambourines
     in the stewing pot,
     a crucible of cymbals.

     Being fresh as new grass, you
     inspire me to astonish, then gloat;
     to beg no pardon, then begin.

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