Sunday, August 27, 2017
Looking For A River
We pass the long blue and white
tent, chairs set in sedate rows,
men and women silent shadows
in the heat; preparing for a revival,
they pay us no mind as our car
tires whine past on soft asphalt.
A bay horse grazes in a field; black
Angus stand belly-deep in a farm pond,
tails switching flies, heads down like
somnolent statues cut out of starless
skies. On and on we drive, a little lost,
following the thread of a shaky map.
We’re looking for a river. We’re looking
for a fresh green current, swirls of mica,
trout circling the kettle like holy ghosts.
We’re looking for the long white banner
of a waterfall, the hidden path behind
a plume of mist and ragged lace.
When we get there, we’ll slide across
slick dark gray rocks, push aside moss
cascading out of deep cracks like prophets.
We’ll crawl into that cool dark space
behind the veil, listen to the river preach:
granite gospel from the mouth of a mountain.
Deborah A. Miranda
Love Poem to a Butch Woman
This is how it is with me:
so strong, I want to draw the egg
from your womb and nourish it in my own.
I want to mother your child made only
of us, of me, you: no borrowed seed
from any man. I want to re-fashion
the matrix of creation, make a human being
from the human love that passes between
our bodies. Sweetheart, this is how it is:
when you emerge from the bedroom
in a clean cotton shirt, sleeves pushed back
over forearms, scented with cologne
from an amber bottle—I want to open
my heart, the brightest aching slit
of my soul, receive your pearl.
I watch your hands, wait for the sign
that means you’ll touch me,
open me, fill me; wait for that moment
when your desire leaps inside me.
Deborah A. Miranda
I just recently discovered this poet and her outstanding poems. I think she is amazing!
She is an enrolled member of the Ohlone-Costanoan Esselen Nation of California and holds a PHD from the University of Washington.