Great Mystery
You are but a stamp on the envelope of
your life that is not even addressed to you, friend.
And who will ever know what's in the letter.
It's counter-intuitive sometimes.
Sitting here while the water heats on the outdoor
stove for a sponge bath hidden behind
a bush of dead lilacs,
near the one pole missing in the latilla fence
that peers onto the neighbor's endless alfalfa.
I mean. Don't come over.
But that's what I'm up to. My letter must be slow to action,
but throw in a few clumsy bruises
and sentimental coyotes.
*
I hope Great Mystery will come by, take off his headdress
and sit on the floor,
explain himself.
But at night. With no moon.
So the prison bars don't look like a beggar's poetry.
I need to know how long any of this will last.
Watch, I bet he'll be at a loss himself, look up and siphon
wisdom from the elderly pine
scraping the roof.
your life that is not even addressed to you, friend.
And who will ever know what's in the letter.
It's counter-intuitive sometimes.
Sitting here while the water heats on the outdoor
stove for a sponge bath hidden behind
a bush of dead lilacs,
near the one pole missing in the latilla fence
that peers onto the neighbor's endless alfalfa.
I mean. Don't come over.
But that's what I'm up to. My letter must be slow to action,
but throw in a few clumsy bruises
and sentimental coyotes.
*
I hope Great Mystery will come by, take off his headdress
and sit on the floor,
explain himself.
But at night. With no moon.
So the prison bars don't look like a beggar's poetry.
I need to know how long any of this will last.
Watch, I bet he'll be at a loss himself, look up and siphon
wisdom from the elderly pine
scraping the roof.
Monk Passage
And if there is a high desert mountain that says
I shall spend seven years at home with
mother, stuffing my head with monarchs,
I'll just add milkweed.
*
No one really knows
me like coyote. Solitude is more
ancient than Earth.
When I was made
wingless I tried not to
laugh.
*
There is a door to a room
full of hope. I tear the hinges
off.
Mud-snails rush out.
*
Containment is not always proper.
*
Sometimes actual monks in actual
monasteries pass their lives hand-copying
scrolls. Imagine
the imprisonment of someone else's
thoughts.
Wouldn't your sentence
drift off the cracked bell and fill
the hour with flooded bodies
of trout instead of ringing?
*
I once forgot to kneel at the altar of
a bombed-out church. Mistook
the place for a mirror after illness.
Two stone walls left standing,
I stayed standing.
I shall spend seven years at home with
mother, stuffing my head with monarchs,
I'll just add milkweed.
*
No one really knows
me like coyote. Solitude is more
ancient than Earth.
When I was made
wingless I tried not to
laugh.
*
There is a door to a room
full of hope. I tear the hinges
off.
Mud-snails rush out.
*
Containment is not always proper.
*
Sometimes actual monks in actual
monasteries pass their lives hand-copying
scrolls. Imagine
the imprisonment of someone else's
thoughts.
Wouldn't your sentence
drift off the cracked bell and fill
the hour with flooded bodies
of trout instead of ringing?
*
I once forgot to kneel at the altar of
a bombed-out church. Mistook
the place for a mirror after illness.
Two stone walls left standing,
I stayed standing.
Lilah Clay writes books, walks beaches, embraces miracles. This is an excerpt from her manuscript Monk Passage. Her work has been published here or there. She does not own a cell phone; the only screen she wants to be near is the screen door.
