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Sol y Luna
He told her, I am stronger than you.
You only carry my reflection.
Yes, she answered, but who dances with the stars?
You are an orphan, he replied. They are my
brothers and sister, my father and mother.
Maybe, she sighed, and retreated behind her veil
so that he could only see her eyes.
But no one ever forgets my beauty after
a night by the sea.
And it is my reflection you dip into
in a well or a pond.
The same one I drink, he retorted. But he had
to admit she was right about her beauty.
All the world wrote love songs to her.
I grow the plants, the trees, the garden.
What would splendor do without the
gilded roses, the scent of jasmine,
the gleam of magnolia, the frost on the branch?
Yes, darling, but I move the sea. Where it touches
land, it is my magnetism that draws it to and fro.
She began to disappear behind her veil and he thought
at last he would have some peace.
But he missed her all the same.
And called her back.
You carry my reflection, he reminded her,
proud and possessive.
But every month I go away, she whispered
and you can't find me.
It does make you intriguing, he had to admit.
But as he stretched out his fiery arms
she winked
and hid behind the clouds.
A Passion of Light
"The problem is your insecurity," he says but he
doesn't see his.
She cries, "You only stay with me because of
the baby."
He has learned to be silent when she says this.
"The problem is your insecurity," he says but he
doesn't see how deep the vein of her love runs.
In the mother lode of loneliness, a flash of
gold threads through black rock. She imagines it
as a boulder shaped like an oval. She wants
to carve spirals on its glassy surface. He doesn't
want to look. He does not see the reflection
of his own fears. He has forgotten the gold
is there as well.
"The problem is your insecurity," he says but he
doesn't know the wide highway of her heart
is thrumming. She is ready to cross the desert
with the top down to catch the crimson sunset
on her hair. And the sparkle of stardust fallen
into a cold cup of coffee throated to the dust.
Ready to reach the ocean again.
Ready to watch the seagulls veering into the sky
rising off the foam and sand like peace signs
in flight.
Ready to find her own silver wings.
The Red Door
I don't know how it happened.
I painted the door red.
I said a prayer.
Often in the evenings I sit by candlelight.
Maybe I am hoping it will mute
the sharp aching.
Maybe I am hoping the Invisible Ones
will come.
I hear them breathing
the soft rush of wings,
I hear the voice of guidance
through the flickering hot air.
It doesn't matter that I can no longer
interpret the answers,
long ago I lost the questions.
I asked too many times, I think.
The birds could only shrug.
At the bus stop in his frayed blue jacket
and unshaven cheeks, he wanted to talk.
My words felt wrong.
How could I say:
Yes, I believe in miracles!
Look at me, I am still standing.
I have a home with a red painted door.
I drank too much tequila at Christmas
but I didn't get sick.
You wouldn't know by looking at my face.
Do you believe in miracles too despite the
raw loneliness peeking out
from the greasy baseball cap?
How many nights did you think:
This is it, this is the last one I can endure.
Do you wish you had said something to someone
you loved before he died?
Did you ever sit up all night in a diner
burning out your insides with bad coffee?
Do you wish you hadn't been so bored in school
that you spent the next eight years running away?
How can I speak like this?
I brought home the sacks of groceries, I put away
the boxes of pasta proudly, I pounded the nail
to hang the plaque that says "Shalom" to the red door.
Can peace be as vibrant? Can peace
be a common greeting like a handshake?
I don't know how it happened:
I painted an announcement of my Supreme Good
Fortune on my door.
My life began to spin and turn
like a prayer wheel.
Weaving the Emptiness
Your presence is here
at the table in El Vicino when
the pizza margarita arrives.
"Not enough basil!" I hear
your voice demanding that
it be returned to the kitchen.
Your presence is here
in the empty seat
at the dance performance,
the musty smell of tobacco
mingled with cologne, I feel
your restless impatience
your need for my hand on yours
articulating my attention
that you come above all else
even though my eyes
are riveted to the stage.
When Roger dances and my
being fills up with a gasp
that must be audible
to your electric nerves, it is
as though you have turned away
in stunned recognition.
You turn back with the question
that burns between us
even on this side of your death.
"Do you still love me?"
The last words before the anguished
gun. The tears dried from years of
insistence on separating your desires
from mine have become
a geyser, a waterfall
an unending river of salt.
You are beside me in the empty bed
although I no longer warm
myself on your heat. You are in
the drumbeat of my heart
even as I find myself dancing
to an unrecognizable song
held by a stranger whose soul
mirrors my own.
Poetry
I will always
find another poem to send you
as if the cold metallic
mailbox were an angel
whispering comfort and joy,
as if the hard beating
of my heart could be heard
on paper like a muezzin's
call to prayer,
as if words could turn you
turn you on your well-oiled
wheels
in my direction.
As if wheels and hearts
had anything to do with it
as if I had not
already
given
everything
away.
Mercado in Oaxaca
Smells like a pungent wave
hit me as soon as
I cross the street
weaving through cars and donkeys
stepping gingerly on the
sidewalk above the gutter
black with decayed refuse
torn papers, fruit peels rotting
and old men's spit.
I don't remember it like this
but of course
instantly it does come back:
life lived close to the bone
old women with bad teeth
up-holding wrinkled palms to beg
squatting in their broken sandles
next to garbage
and the rolling thunder of traffic.
My feet take the steps through the doors
but my whole body is shaking
as nervous as if I am about to leap
off the high board for the first time
or meet a boy in the park
that I have not yet kissed.
Fifteen years ago
I shopped in the mercado daily
piling the cheap plastic bolsa
tomates, cebolla, lechuga
ajo, plantanos, huevos
at ease, smiling at the vendors
chattering away at me as if I understood.
I understood enough to accept the
extra fruit thrown in to
complete the bargain,
toss the correct amount of pesos
into their hands.
This uncontrollable shaking
is it my fear of confronting
the ghosts of the past?
Is it fear of seeing my self
visble in mists of nostalgia
the young woman sauntering
between rows of vegetables and fruits
and yet her heart on the verge of
breaking every minute
solitary although surrounded by
Mexicans gossiping, bargaining and
invoking Santos
muted in her plea
for someone who would love her so deeply
he would never let go.
I move to the counter of mole and chili
the woman behind it hands me a stack of
chocolate pesos and a smile.
The fear dissolves in the pleasure
of its sweet smell
and suddenly I remember why I have come back
enfolded in dark eyes of a woman
seeing me as I truly am
alone and afraid, a woman like herself
walking the woman's path
giving nourishment
receiving nourishment
no longer hidden in her eyes.
This is to tell you that I don't want to go:
I no longer flirt with the idea of pure
freedom, of pure light pouring thorugh
the wings of my soul and taking me to
heaven, the idea of becoming eternal.
This is to tell you that I don't want to
go to heaven. I found heaven. Heaven feels
like a heart beating under my ear and
my face falling back to itself, attuned,
grateful. Heaven is a child smiling into my
smiles, relfections of each other merging into
a joy so huge it has no words and even a
photograph is a ghost walking on water.
This is to tell you I don't want to leave
Santa Fe, not even the dry gritty wind that
forces my eyes shut nor the fragrance of
sage following me down a rocky path.
I don't want to give up the texture of light
on my wall in the morning or the belief
in miracles and Saints that I learned to
cultivate with prayer flags.
This is to tell you that despite the tortured
heart that says I must not or I must--that
thirsts for assurances while diving into mystery,
that palcates the gods with a few words paid to the wind,
I am no longer afraid to have life filled to
overflowing with happiness, this small bird
that perches on a trellis to sing his high clear note
no matter the season or the time.
October Afternoon
Summer is fading slowly
not a loud party with fireworks
tears and hugs of farewell
but a quiet change of mood.
The petunias are a few blossoms away
from becoming crumbled brown leaves
and the golden coins falling from the trees
into the lap of Tierra Madre
are reminders that the branches
will be bankrupt and
the life hiiden in its sap
only a promise. Must I fill myself
like a bear preparing for hibernation
on the berries of candlelit dinners
on the patio and peach ice cream
melting on the tongue? I move slowly
through these gathering days,
my palms up-held as if I could capture
the heavy syrup of sun
as if the moon spilling across
purple twilight was sprinkled
in my hair like a crown of
perfumed blossoms
as if your deep velvet kisses
were filling up a purse I could unlatch
at my leisure and pour into my bath
whenever I begin to drown.
Wendy L. Brown is a former member of the Santa Fe women's writing group "Word Dancers" that self-published a book called "Dancing Between Worlds" and have performed their poetry locally, most recently in July 2007. Brown released a CD in 2004, Longing for Home, and has been published in such literary magazines as: I am a Miracle III, THE Magazine, The Litchfield Reader, The Chrysalis Reader and Northography.com. She studies alernative medicine, is an hospice volunteer, a widow and a grandmother of two boys. She recently moved to Minneapolis to be near them. Her novel, MoonSense, a spiritual parable, is forthcoming from Creatrix Books spring 2008. She is also the creator of Writing Circles for Healing, "a writing support group to write our way through loss, grief, illness, and life-altering experiences." For more info: www.writingcirclesforhealing.com (August, 2003, April 2005, February 2008)
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