Saw a skull

then a jaw

unearthed

this tibia

and under ice 

a metatarsus.

Here lace-like fibula fell from the sky

as a hummingbird

and a hawk moth

plummeted,

singing with their wings.

Things fall apart.

I lose the name for,

forget the feel of

the curve in the arm that held me.

This is because 

I fear leaving behind too much 

for others to pick up.

Wait.

Is this true?

No. It isn't.

I wouldn't mind

at all

if when I'm gone

someone came along,

placed a phalange

from my bony hand

among lost eggs 

and bits of coal

they found 

along a

new-formed shoal.

 

 

 

 It's cold

and I an growing old -

today my teeth,

tomorrow my eyes.

Gulls fly by,

before they are bones.

I look into stones

for houses, animals, older signs of life.

My husband died nine years ago.

Nine!

I saw his last sigh,

kissed his cold skull.

The cold is a stone

preserving memory.

At least for me

I see,

I always remember,

time,

warm things,

love,

when it is cold.

 to arrive

to reach 

to shut down

before dawn

 tonight 

parrot

called from culled palm

fallen fronds-

cold

 How can I tell them the misalignment makes chewing painful?

This week I feel broken.

I do not understand so many, many things.

 

mask 

glare

where

my poor Portuguese

stutters about

though in an afterward

six Bantu gifted words 

bring cake 

and reassurance

 

Cold creeps into street stones

as warm bones watch

ice encrust 

a puddle of must,

gut flood, grime.

Ghosts.

Time lives

inside field mice underfoot,

in dessicant grain

and freesia in January.

I find an absence of malice in hail,

even as it wounds tiny paws, 

dampens bran, 

can find no

death thought

in the blooms it breaks.

Cold steeps in deep ruts

found around my torso

dirt rinses the sun

and stuns glasses.

Still no spite

in mighty wind,

in altered weather.

 Ghosts,

our legacy

have left that to us.

 

my glasses

a pair there

at the foot of a mountain

in Spain

again

in Iberia

an elemental 

breakage

by wind

 

 

and, is

the last word isn't 

an end

but an and

Anda

Anda!

Existe uma distância entre o mero cheiro do mesmo e o mar.

Anda!

Há uma distância

entre o seu mero cheiro e o mar resplandecente.

Temos de começar a caminhar em direcção ao mar.
 
Vamos sair desta pequena sala
e ir para o topo de uma colina.

Depois desceremos numa rua tortuosa e desolada.

Taunhado por as gaivotas,
vamos começar a nossa viagem
até ao limite aguado desta nova terra.

____________________________

Come on!

There is a distance between the mere smell of it and the sea.

Come on!

There is a distance

between its mere smell and the glistening sea.

We have to start walking towards the sea.
 
Let's leave this little room
and go to the top of a hill.

Then we will descend on a crooked and desolate street.

Taunted by seagulls,
we will begin our journey
to the watery edge of this new land

Succotash, sumac, mush

were found

in grandmother's kitchen. 

Corn meal, fried,

was the last breakfast I made Dad

before he died.

Now growing small trees and 

steeping herb teas

keeps me planted

in those old gardens and woods, where

Children don't chew sassafras twigs anymore.

 

 

de jardins e lugares mais selvagens

 

 uma semente irá ensinar-lhe a ver

a seed will teach you about seeing

 

 

Garden one

 1

I planted black spruce seedlings, found in lonely places, into small patches.

They've managed, these young trees, to live in peace, sustain themselves, each other.

Yet cooperative systems decline.

What is it to be resolute even in your end?

These trees teach me distances,  the distillation of desire, multiple finalities.

 
2

Gather up the vines. 

Dance to death.

 

3

Spent flowers

A broken lid of stars

drop around us on the way home

They cannot stay forever in the sky.

When we die it will be like this, I say.

 

4

I saw a peony of glass,

pollinated by flames.

5

In Japan, the humble mallow is hallowed.

6

Swim in in an old river, shower, rest.

____________

Garden two

1

fertile centers

on the edges of iron, stone, light 

might outlast us.

In Barra, a kiln, a peat clamp

where coils of clay 

from children's play

stay buried near their graves.

Still seeding, these salty grasses, 

a girl's greening pets.

____________________

Garden Three

I reckon occupation
is recyclable.

woman on their right side
men on their left

our terminal bruxism,

a barrage of teeth and bone

that will make soil and stone.

Or, if you want, place us back into the sea.

We seed flowers there too.

___________________________

"remembering who we are
then beyond into forgetting

into infinite evocative nothing"

- archeologist on Barra

from a viewed video, 10 Jan 2023
machair (mack car) fertility, and shelter

 one

walk

an

eye

thought

 watered sky

this bone cold seeping out of stone

soaking sand

under dog's feet 

cat's tails

brown sails

into slug, 

overland routing 

lines

of pink legged gulls