Polo Lara Muñoz
A BLACK and WHITE PICTURE
We took it
at the September Fair
of that faraway ’99 autumn.
A little rain touched your hair.
We walked among the sweet
You told me my sign is Leo.
But mine is Capricornio.
We ate pink elephant ears.
Red and yellow was the dusk
of the evening,
green was the mountain,
blue the sky.
A carnival of doves was
coming off your lips.
A thousand tigers were waking up
in the pupil of my eyes.
A man and a woman
a new kingdom
on a summit of a gorge.
Newly we knew the rustling
of the weeping willows.
We thought the world was
the perfect river to navigate
our infinite sadness.
Later came the unpredictable
dancing of the fallen leaves,
the howling of the trains
in the distance,
and the interminable
lament of the ants.
Terry E. Lockett
For JC Lockett
I opened an old trunk in the garage yesterday
thumbed through some old photographs
and there you were- after a bear hunt
clothes unruffled as your demeanor.
Your eyes blazing through the shade of your fedora
through the steel and brick of your Iron Works
the eight decades and three generations that separate us,
through death itself.
Fusing your eyes to mine-welding my life to your own.
Apotheosis of a Turnip
you slice my head off
with its yellow winter shoots
my tail, cut off,
lies naked like a rat’s
drifting root hairs
my skin, peeled,
tossed to the waste bin
blushes rosy purple
my crisp white flesh
chopped then boiled
roasts in dried rosemary,
olive oil, onion, and salt.
when I am turned
caramel in butter,
no one will ever
know I’m a turnip
NOVEMBER, GOING BACKWARDS
Lucille Clifton, Shadows:
“meaning is the thread/ running forever in the shadow.”
strange weather events invite meaning
huge snowflakes like peonies in November
before mornings become gray shadows
hawks hovering close tell me you are forever
while our clocks down here are running
somewhere the gears of time have lost their threads
old cloth from baby boxes and bits of thread
separated from socks and shirts have slipped their meanings
watches wound up to keep them running
blankets pulled down from closets in November
smell like you still, but they will not forever
what is gone loses brightness in the shadows
Through the sliding door the pine trees make shadows
in early morning, their needles thread
with sticks and birds and go on forever
begging every dream to tell its meaning
conjured up from deep sleeps of November
I share them quickly while I see them running
In home films I see us running
until reels halts to an end in shadows
We wore wool coats to church in November
and fur hand muffs where I found threads
makeshift rosaries wanting meaning
to unravel as the service went on forever
furniture is never moved but stays forever
and the water outside is running
nothing changes in these houses but their meaning
as new light fills corners which were shadows
I go back in time to follow other threads
with my overcoat, I tread backwards through Novembers
I was brought to live with you as a baby in November
starting my new life to last forever
placed in a family with a tree of threads
In a year I would be running
from morning until daytime turned to shadows
now I trace steps backwards to find new meaning
I tear off October to find November, meaning
new days forever follow shadows
running forward, these crossing threads
NOVEMBER 7TH, 2020
We will call forth again
Oh happy day!
Oh fruit of great labor!
Oh undying spirit!