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
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