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Song of Radiant Calamities
"I only ask to say what I've come to say."
- The Matrix
Maya in an open blouse
Witnessing Maya in an open blouse
makes space for the blessings
and havoc of miracles rippling
the impeccable surface of time,
drifting palpable as surf sun thrailing atoms
into shapes, into skin, into breast.
*
The "I" stripped bare to its desires.
A curious being we cobble together
and can't see past.
Don't blame Maya.
Things are beyond her control.
The truth of it leads to the question:
"What's it all about?"
All the time we are...we guess....
*
Burning out very quickly,
drinking fizzy passion fruit cocktails
from canopic jars,
it is to the sweet and acid honesty
of life and love we cling.
Movement takes its toll.
The hurt of the world signs with bruises.
We were made to be deceived.
*
Magnificent country of the beautiful
cutting away from itself
in a ritual of blessing we only know
when it is not, whose center
is in the entangling eye of our own reflection
striving for meaning denied,
our future craves healing.
We are what we move toward.
*
How much do we know before we know it?
Amnesia washes over the love poem
I wish were here. Maya spent her life
trying to put moonlight in bottles.
I've deconstructed cuckoo clock heads
and parts. I've asked the overweight
Nightingale for advice, talked to feathers
and bones, to agates and shells
but the rupture of the sea has beguiled her,
wrapped her in seaweed and forgetfulness
held together by a broach ofÊOregon coast.
Scott Malby lives in and writes from Coos Bay, Oregon. (February 2008)
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