Five Poems by Cynthia Anderson

 

The Friend Who Finally Arrives

 

He likes to go his own way.

I’m used to his disappearances,

know better than to expect

 

his company, even when promised.

So I’m already wistful as we walk

and talk, grateful for the ease—

 

and later, not surprised by a note

announcing his early departure,

describing our time as “comfortable”

 

in the smallest of handwriting.

And it’s no surprise that he’s dead—

that this meeting takes place in a dream,

 

that he helps tend my soul, though

he is incorrigible—his kindness,

when present, fills every black hole,

 

and I still believe he can help me.

Grandmother Returns to Sedona Through My Eyes

 

The mountains breathe,

their trees lean against me—

 

My eyes see what

your eyes saw

you slip quietly into me—

 

You turn my head,

and I remember

what you remember—

 

the red rocks

the ponderosa pines

the rush of water—

 

the sudden stroke

that broke your dream

of being an artist—

 

twenty-two years

in nursing homes,

how you gripped my hand—

 

Tonight you take me down

the steep-sided canyon

to stand by the singing stream.

 

And this morning I pull

a single black hair

from my brown head.

 

Petal and Gale

 

You are my door

to earth

 

In spring

golden pollen

marks us

for the seed

 

You give me

scales of fish

and snake

 

You give me

acorn

pine cone

 

Petal and gale

are yours

 

you of the

winged feet

folded softly

beside me

 

The Woodcutter

 

Every day the forest life

sings low, before the sun

is up: Come closer,

 

my darling, my love.

The woodcutter stirs,

wakens. His blood answers,

 

Never doubt that I’m yours.   

The axes on the table

are sharp, their handles

 

smooth and silent.

He picks the two best

for this day's work,

 

strides through the mist

with his dog.

When he drinks,

 

the stream laughs

and shows him his face.

He wastes no movement,

 

glides like a shadow

to his chosen tree.

The sun paints

 

rose streaks above.

His body swings

through beads of sweat.

 

Each blow builds

a mansion in his mind.

 

Iphigenia

 

Now I know

why the voice of the wind

haunts me so—

 

When Greek ships lay useless at the shore

and the army's roar reached the hill

where a king paced silent

in his hut of stone and skins—

 

And he, Agamemnon,

arranged his fear and pride

to make his daughter

a false bride—

 

When swift Achilles

spoke to end the lie,

and the queen's soul writhed

at the blackness of her days—

 

Iphigenia hid in the wood

like a hunted deer,

the mate of the sacred stag,

her father's debt.

 

Iphigenia shed her youth

like a flower chain

and left her father's side,

the oracle made flesh.

 

Iphigenia wore the white veils of death

and the altar of Greece bore her blood.

 

And the wind blew, and blew, and blew,

blew all the ships to Helen, blew them

fiercely, and it was not her face

that launched them,

not her beautiful, vacant face—

 

but the face of the girl

bright with terror

never to return to Argos.

Cynthia Anderson has published eleven poetry collections, most recently Full Circle (Cholla Needles, 2022). Her poems appear frequently in journals and anthologies, and she is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. She makes her home in the Mojave Desert near Joshua Tree National Park. www.cynthiaandersonpoet.com