by Diane Wakoski

     thinking of Patricia Waters
     in St. Augustine

With Minerva’s eyes of corrugated knowing
she wraps us in hand – made envelopes
of paste paper. We calligraph
our own Valencia – mouthed answers,
sip letters thru glasses of Pinot Grigio. We
idlers, we
postulants, accepting
strange epistolary wafers,
poetry melting on our tongues.

by Diane Wakoski

“Take one,” she said, opening her closet
of frankincense & myrrh.
In it hung anoraks, parkas, wool jackets, raincoats,
even a heavy loden greatcoat. All bought
in thrift stores, a wardrobe allowing her
whole family
to walk in any weather.

I selected a khaki safari jacket,
and we walked down to the marina.
What journeys we suburban women take

through costume and
accoutrement.

by Thomas Meyer

And Jacob called unto his sons, and said, Gather
yourselves together, that I may tell you that which
shall befall you in the last days.

Cassis stained shirt. Chocolate.
Hand held out. Coin on the palm. The Tsar.
Mumbo. Jumbo. Sentences begin here.
Cache pots. Flower clocks appoint constant time.
Is there something wrong with me
who relishes all this plotlessness ?
A moon very wide awake. Behind a cloud the sun.
Perplexity all linked by depth’s hard bright angle.
Who can remember anything ?
The President and the Maiden, name them.
Slam the door on Want.
Let Have out. Don’t even think about
Hope and Innocence. It doesn’t matter what they say.
One thing, the next. Side beside side.
Never light, low ceilings. Somewhere to leave.
Is this English ?  I mean the language.
The smooth course of love is never.
A dream, the voice said: Genesis 49, the first line.

Without warning. A gust of air. A door
blown open. The world revealed.
Like the bird dashes against the light,
a dependent clause slips upon the eyes.
An alley in the dark the door
opens onto, away from the crowd.
Here there is Charity. The thick of it.

How can we deny
the stars through the trees ?

Not a house upon a hill
but lights in a night sky.

by Hugh Seidman

The Andeans sledge for Morococha copper.

They hoped quick years:
to buy land — or a son from the pit.

In the Cemetery of Heaven,
Rosa Escobar’s black mantilla hoods stone.

Two days from Huancavelica.
Magnified, reborn Christ wounds.

Brother: pneumonia corpse at Morococha.

o

I confess that I confess.
I have bought and sold copper, nickel, silver and gold.

One of the sleepers, betting for time.

Dreaming farther and farther into the barriada,
past mud and flames.

Like any animal lacing shoes.

Trying to inform the saviors of the people —
we know, we know.

o

History’s inherent mercury; extracted silver.
Peru’s poorest zone.

Víctor Taype, union head, tortured by the Commando.

Antonio Cajachagua, mine leader,
assassinated by Sendero Luminoso.
Silicosis, arsenic dust.

Acidic Yauli toxic with metals.
Copper, zinc, iron, manganese, cadmium.

Stroller thrust on the blue – dusk Hudson,
to shield a child from the squalor.

Agog at the billionaire condos.
Clerestory water wall, infinity – edge pool.

Crucified by the sun spears.

Scorified sky of fire and dark.
Alloys binding wrists and neck.

Silhouetted kayak stroking to Rosa Escobar’s brother.