Tuesday, July 28, 2009

Gremlins Again...


(for Jane Eshleman Conant, November 5, 1912-July 28, 1991)

—Jane Blue, Sacramento

Red roses reach into the politics of the sun.

The sun is everywhere, like God. Like your mother.

But then it sinks and the moon rises.
Your mother never dies.

The satellites rise, rushing across the summer sky.

Your father might die,
but your mother never dies.

There is one white rose as well, humble, almost
invisible. That is you.

The street is still. Even the doves
have gone inside their twiggy nests, outwaiting
(outwitting) the heat.

Just the slightest wind shakes the long canes.

I smell the acrid freeway
and its eternal (infernal) sound like a polluted sea.

But also the new-cut lawn.

Your mother in your dreams with a ruby
or a garnet in her ear.

Never dies.


Sorry that some of you are getting html instructions in the middle of your Medusas! I'm having a devil of a time posting lately; I don't know if it's Firefox or blogspot. Let's try this...