Monday, April 28, 2014

Pocahontus In The Old World

In the wind, she hears a language

beyond song finch and fountain –

hands sorting through clam shells, water

running over nets made of vine, the paddling

of canoes.


Here time moves slowly, promenading

through green circles and rows – as if

the hours were laced, stiffened

by a farthingale – she now wears

restricting her own movement. A basket

turned upside down, meant to carry

nothing but the weight of fashion

and protocol she barely understands.


Her wilderness is a ghost

shadowing the ether, trying

to repossesses its beautiful

young body.


And yet, she fears its presence

going back to the wild breadth

of something that will be vanquished.

No comments: