Another Excerpt

I must not continue any further without mentioning Marylou Lewandowski, who, very early on, gave me the encouragement to keep writing. I remember sitting there, trembling with both fear and anxiety, as she read through some of the poems included in this collection. I still recall, very clearly, the excitement in her voice as she discussed the poetry. Oh, how her hands trembled with art and with the poetry that is hidden in our veins.
I will never forget her marvelous charm and those names which surrounded her, plastered against the walls of feverish anticipation. I remember that we all wept upon hearing the news that her tree had died. In a home so full of passion and love, it is difficult, almost impossible, to believe that death would drape its ponderous cape upon her glass of sparkling apple. That day, Roethke came alive and filled our brimming eyes with passion and shadow and suicide. I would say more but I think that the other things discussed that day should remain private. The following poem would have never come to fruition had it not been for that splendid afternoon.

Disappearance

For Marylou Lewandowski, a heart above the rest.

A little girl
informed me
of your death.

Now,
the poplars spill their blood
on the temples of children.
Rain seeks
the tears.
Horses grieve
in cabinets.
Poets weep
in jars.

My mouth is for sand.
My thigh is for dark needles.
My tongue is for candles of crystal.

The terrible
and eternal sadness
covers the maple
with corduroy.
The grass
pretends to be alive.

Oh,
how it hurts
to remember
the sparkling apples.
Oh,
how lovely
Roethke spoke
under the arch
of photographs.

Outside,
not a pine
in sight.

What does the wind say?

The world is a tiny drop.
The world is a charred feather.
The world is a river of candy.

A little girl
sang in the cradle.

The moon
brings your moaning
of lace.
The moon
throws garlands
at your waist.
And a cape,
protects you from
my dreams
and my imagination.

But your imagination
is my imagination.
My mouth your mouth.
My voice your voice.

I can hear the oranges
talking inside the white leaves.
I can hear the crabs
choking on the sun
that fills their mouths.

Our mouths are filled
with sun and moon.

Roethke!
Roethke!
Roethke is dead
but not his shadow!

With the grey violins,
tears gathered the heads
of dissected ants.

In the corners of cemeteries,
lilies beg for criminals
and saliva,
bulls shout
for handfuls
of ash,
oceans forget
their preserved temples,
stars die of agony,
forming streets
of cold fog
and thirsting strings
of guitar.

It’s true.
It’s true.
Roethke could not be found
in the veins of sparkling water.