Painted Lady
I cradle it in my palm, its butterfly
weight
oddly substantial on my skin. I can’t pry
the wings apart so I inspect its underside:
scalloped like sea sand; black spots
like tiny eyes ringed in yellow and rust,
body a downy cylinder; tongue a coiled
thread.
This was a life lived in transit, a life
that brightened the air between the
flowers.
So small a thing, so light on the breeze
but not so light as to lose its way. Its
body
now, an empty velvet costume.
My mother left her body, marble white,
blue and purple in spots where gravity
left its marks—a gift to the medical
school. Eyes closed as in sleep, brows
and lids made up by tattoo, this body
that once brightened every room she ever
entered, was whisked away, a teaching tool,
before I had the chance to overcome
my fear—so unlike her, this new silence—
to reach in and hold her one last time.
A Mother Must
You
are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth. Kahlil Gibran
I have a fine horse, he assures me. I want to ask:
But can your fine horse swim? I track their route:
rain, high winds, debris flows, flash
floods.
Tomorrow looks no better. I imagine them
tucked into the minivan while rain
lashes and winds whip. I don't believe
in any church's doctrine, but I do believe
in prayer
and I now pray with all my being.
Your children are arrows, the poet said.
And I am but a bow. And I know how desire—
hers for this trip, and pride—his, for his manly
abilities—can blind. I reach deep for the
stone
of strength lodged within my heart.
He can do this, a voice tells me from somewhere
within. And you can do this. Perhaps
I can.
I can't track exactly this arrow's
trajectory,
can only lay the bow of myself down and
wait,
taut string trembling.
Redwoods*
I long to dwell among these quiet giants,
rest there,
in their green and timeless past,
the fragrant shade of ages where
grace weaves like a scarf
of fog among the bodies of the trees,
the ancients who know the deep
world, time-scarred
and blooming. In my dreams, I live there,
am one of them, casting shadows, drinking
fog,
free of fear, free of worry, free of
choice.
*a reverse golden shovel made from this line by Wendell Berry:
"I
rest in the grace of the world and am free"
Moth on a Mirror
Tonight I pour oil into my palm
to smooth away the footprints
of the years. It never works.
A small moth on the mirror
catches my eye. I bring my face
closer—who is he, really?
In tasteful taupe with brown-velvet
markings, his wings drop behind him
like a cape. His image in the mirror
shows tiny eyes like poppy seeds.
Antennae rise in two arcs–feathers
on a fancy hat. Forelegs turn up dainty
at the ends, like pinkies raised to lift
a China cup. We stare at one another,
he like a prince arrayed, his gaze
imperious. I admire his understated
beauty. He doesn’t think of growing
old. He does his job in the world,
eats what needs eating, becomes food
for what needs to eat him. And with
the grace of one so elegant of form,
he lives his insect way until he leaves
his life, a life with no thought
of the road ahead, no questions there,
forever unaware of his good luck.
The Wolf in Your Heart
If you were that wolf,
no one would ever brush you.
No one would stroke your fur,
talk to you, give you treats.
Never would you ride in a car,
catch a frisbee in your mouth,
leap through waves.
No one would feed you;
you would have to hunt,
you would have to kill
and I know you don't care
for that. But there is a wolf
in your heart, I know.
I have seen the fierce cold stare
of the wolf in your amber eyes
as you pull, pull, pull on the rope.
Tamara Madison is a California native and retired educator. She is the author of three full-length volumes of poetry, Wild Domestic, Moraine (both from Pearl Editions) and Morpheus Dips His Oar (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions), and two chapbooks, The Belly Remembers (Pearl Editions) and Along the Fault Line (Picture Show Press). Tamara's fourth full-length volume, Russian Honeymoon, is forthcoming from Fernwood Press. Her work has appeared in the Writer’s Almanac, Sheila-Na-Gig, One Art, Worcester Review, and many other publications. Read more of her work at
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