Like a ladder
the green vein
of the zucchini
climbs each petal
reaches the petal tip.
The petal arches back.
One blossom displays
her pistil.
Another, the anthers.
Where the sepal
diminishes,
the small round
breast of the zucchini
nudges the petals.

Henna on her hands,
she walks the streets.
Henna on her hands,
she braids her sister’s hair.
To color her hair,
a soft mound of henna
in a rounded gourd
next to her sister’s ankles;
her sister sits on a straw mat,
legs outstretched.
On the henna plant grows
fragrant white flowers;
an extract from the henna
leaves a dark-colored dye
for your hair, your palms,
the soles of your feet.
No henna on my hands,
my hair, my feet;
henna in my pen,
on the page that was blank.

They fit together like two hemispheres,
one enclosing the other.
Apart from each other, each is broken.
One shoulders the other,
draws her gradually to the light.
When one is warm,
the other is cool.
Each knows day and night,
but neither experiences it fully
at the same moment.
They fit together like two hemispheres,
like oceans and continents.
Neither is whole without the other.
It’s a balancing act,
like tide tugging at the shore.
One cradles the other,
feeds her.
See how they fit together,
day and night,
fullness and hunger,
mother and child.

Her eyes once reflected
love, cupped in my hands,
cradled in my arms;
my hair, a curtain
concealing our glances.

At night, the kerosene lamps come out;
they look like the water lilies that bloom in the morning.
We set them on wooden tables;
sometimes their legs are unsteady.
Kerosene lamps flicker;
they open up like white petals unfolding.
The kerosene lamp has a blue stamen;
its flame lives in a glass vase.
Water lilies float on the marsh surface.
Neither the water lily nor the kerosene lamp has roots.
You cannot hold a kerosene lamp
the way a child cradles a lily.

My daughter hides under
an indigo blanket
and covers my face, too.
The long thin woven strips,
the seams that give way.
Light enters
the cracks in the seams
as stars piercing the night-sky blanket.

When loneliness swells
like a girl’s pregnant belly
when night holds
you in embrace
little children run
through your dreams.
You feel their pain;
you cannot shake it off,
like the odor of a blue dye
that can’t be washed
from a blanket.

The little sister of the
teenager with gauged ears
has bought two paperbacks.
She gives a dollar to
the tattooed cowboy
playing classical guitar.
Old fired brick floors
cradle our feet.
We will wait here until
the westbound train arrives
here in this little town
without vending machines.
The granddaughter of the
bookseller holds up her skirt and
dances.

Sole mate,
partner
friend for the road
leather tramp,
we met
along the Way,
wayward
brother sister.
Home
hearth
health
dimming
behind
yet
homeward
pull,
hurling
us
heavenward,
hoisting
our haunches
through hills
and haunted
valleys.

Each leaf
is an aperture
of light.
Buds open
to admit the sun.
Each green leaf
courts light.

In autumn
the golden leaf of aspen
clocks the measured hours of day,
each gold leaf
witness to
the sun’s
divided loyaties.