Potent

Rosehips flamed all winter in the woods behind our house.
They’d ward off colds, she told us, forcing them raw
into our mouths — skin, seeds, head,
barbed black tufts that scorched our lips until they bled.

We knew better: the rose they came from was a dog,
its bright beads brewed a syrup dark as bane
to help us catch
what men were saying when they barked.

Honeymoon on Heligoland

August Strindberg and Frida Uhl, May 1893

It’s all so sudden — she’s like a seed
dropped by a bird, sunk deep in sand,
keening for rain. Traditional landscape
of hills and trees, a quiet river flowing past.
Then in a flash it’s New Year and here
he is, cracking her in his hand.

Another will call it Spring Awakening,
this flood of love that needs no banns.
Three days of peace, barely time to bed down.
Is this marriage on the rocks?
He walks above the tide, spray in his eyes.
She pays for food and board with blood.

Looking back, she sees him salted
to a red colossus on the crags, dredging gold
from the black breakers, the curdled air, the cliff
face, the torch-flowers — while she turns on
light after light in room after room,
gunning for the brilliance of the sun.

Mashrabiyya

(woodwork grille covering windows of women’s quarters in oriental houses)

Do not approach the window
                           the dissipated heat
                           the ravishing light
Avoid excitement
                           courtyard politics
                           men’s talk, their thick
                           tongues
Moon away
                           sultry afternoons
Never raise your voice
Sit still and listen
                           the rush of wings
                           the fountain’s ecstasy
Has no one told you?
This is the real world
The rest is           fantasy
                           (horned lilies
                           roses crumpling like silk
                           the hookah’s husky spell)
Be modest, patient
Soak your limbs in ice
before you lay them
                           on the grille