(after)
every spider
has winched itself
eave to eave
there is a time
for the fly
to be silenced
after
every fly
has been silenced
floors
begin to speak
after
every
floorboard
has had its say
there’s only
the sound
of your tread
I can never tell
if you’re walking away
or towards me
(after) every night
tensing for
your arrival
or departure
I begin to think I can hear
the effort
of silk unspooling
from the spider
the arrowhead
of the fly
wounding the silk
the sound
of something
dying away
like
footfalls
What I Might Say
after Rumi
Tonight, I could be a fig tree, a resinous bed of mint,
a field of grapevines. Small and shivering leaves.
I could be bamboo, muttering to myself. Plaiting the edge
of a dried lake bed, waiting for the axe.
Rosemary, self-seeded among succulents. A trespasser,
not hiding my spikes, hoping you’ll let me stay.
The jewel spider, deep within the bezel of your eaves.
Guarding the threshold, ready with my silk.
Even belladonna in a ghostly dress, eyes unseeing, wide.
Circling the outside of your house, breathing through its cracks.
I long to be herbs in your fist, a lacquered eggplant, lemon.
A naked garlic clove, its fever numbing in your mouth.
Instead, while we sleep, I deepen under you. Become
uneasy water, an upturned boat, its mooring caught.
Part of the self leaves the body when we sleep
and changes shape. You might say, “Last night
I was a cypress tree, a small bed of tulips,
a field of grapevines.”
- Rumi
(from ‘Unmarked Boxes’ in The Essential Rumi: New Expanded Edition, 2004, translated by Coleman Barks. New York: HarperOne. 272)