if the blood red rose
blooms white some spring
lighting its obscure
part of the night
a small perfumed moon
nestled among thorns
who would protest this wonder?
I tremble before love’s simplicity
oh bitter sweet surrender
oh ever sweetening trust
even death is turned
inside out
let it pass through me
love’s terrifying light
should I become ash
it will be enough
asha
Between Us
Priestess
Having found no suitable priestess
I have become my own—
transforming
and transforming myself.
asha
Ontology of Clouds
A thrown stone finds its resting
place within the grass
the egg, more than a tombstone,
must shatter first into light
what is born must devour itself
in order to survive its darkness,
its promise and its threat.
Dandelion lanterns along the path,
soon blown out, are not a loss, no
seed is a loss. In the green light
of my first summers, seeing the wild
mass of morning glories swarming
secretly over overlooked places,
I knew I had inherited a lie.
When the spirit is wounded
and the wound is deep
be gentle—in this ache,
this flare of dying light, again
and again we risk everything.
Salt stained clouds foam up the sky
it is on an afternoon like this
we will begin again with nothing.
asha
Water Brother
When I see the brown hills lying
coldly in the sly distance
or the clouds having lost their ocean
looking for a place to weep
or the crystal drop on the still leaf tip
falls—
I remember the angels
perfumed and ancient as midnight
new as silver of the waxing moon
who first spoke to me of death.
At dawn I went to the hill that sleeps
and called their names
loudly
louder and louder
until even the snakes in their dens
shuddered
then softly I called them
quietly whispering each name
until there was no sound at all
but the tolling of a distant bell . . .
It was then they came—
sursum corda—
scratching the sky, reaching through
the timeless blue dream with their talons
clawing long blazing marks in the wind
and in that moment,
sweet inconsolable water brother—
one mad despised flower
with no petals at all/with translucent, golden petals
growing beneath the bridge/beneath the fig tree
laughing to itself
bird on the morning breeze
empty of everything but light
bloomed
asha
Re-beginnings
Seattle
Touched by your eyes, I quake. Whatever is good has ceased to flow.
I throw the poison mirror away. The walls close towards center.
Barely room to breathe.Morning comes and again I resolve to survive the day, overcome this.
We had planned to do that. Times have been better. My flesh hurts.
I plunge back into sleep.But the urge returns, jarring open my eyes. You aren't here.
What am I creating? Or am I just re-living-living the worst
old outcomes? There was a truth here. Sinking, my thoughts
become seeds seeking the comforting dark. Memories
are of no value. Where I am now I am safe—
between everything—away and alone
under a high cloud sky.
In this inner world of the closed flower there is a moment’s rest.
The wind and tide erase all. I do not speak the language here.
It is a comfort. I communicate through half tones, faint smiles.
Outside the petals, rain and finally a clear sky and distant
mountains asleep under their snow. Having held back
too long, I do not cry. We bend or break.
Now I lay me down to sleep.
The rain drenched petals creak.
I lower myself into the storm—
small boat, small wings—
to try the sea.asha
Return
to the disembodied
painted faces of the inner air
the stone voice speaks
the whorls upon waking weep
the swamp of singing reeds
the growing world
turns to listen
time
delirious with eternity
sleeps on
there is no answer
in the winter sun
birds are thinking
they do not reply
I have returned
from a long journey
I have changed
the end and the beginning
stir and separate my thoughts
it is noon at my place on earth
asha
published in Sein und Werden
Life at the top of the stairs
For Fleek
Having to be somewhere—
I found myself living on the landing
at the top of the stairs.
A thousand times a thousand times
I finished in my mind the unfinished
painting leaning against the wall.
The eight-legged one,
tiny Protectorate of the Shadows
and her silken sacks of eggs,
she alone knows the rest of the story—
asha
Yellow Shoes
When I had feet me shoes were yellow
ah yellow as pollen they were
bright as lemons
bright as me lad's smile
bold as his laugh
an oh how I danced in me shoes
all night
a swarm a bees
drunk from the flowers
sportin their yellow pants an boots
knew not as many turns as me lad an me
not haf as many
an when
in the slow river
a bare foot we went a wadin
me lad an me
an bare we were from toe to head
a hand an hand
me yellow shoes was glad to wait
all hodgepodge with his
for shoes has no need a feet
though feet has a need a them
but now
old as I be
I has no need a shoes
not yellow
not brown
but glad I am
glad as I was when I was a lass
for I got me me lad
an I rather him than me feet.
asha
—written at the behest of Lawson Fusao Inada
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