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The young woman spends three days against a Western slope.
At dawn, she dances in the four directions and
Extends the corn husk in her hands.
Seeking your water
I went down
It was like the slow embrace
of a million dark lakes
a flower of streams
Land blackened by a soot which no raven
is visible, and no wing moving
could possibly be caught,
land blackened like the ‘off’ screen of a monitor,
no shapes lit by light but
formed by dark reflections – a darkness
will dig holes in the ground.
What shall I,
a watching woman,
They call all experience of the senses mystic,
when the experience is considered.
So the tiny bud of lavender becomes mystic when I smell in it
In the alter, before dusk,
I was digging a hole.
It was as though
The dirt was my heart
And my small hands
Were trying to get in
In the evening
Holding my shrinking body
I smell the sweet tobacco
And corn husk and
Then with the tip of my nose
Whatever that was
that urged the flower
the pearling of dew
and the space between trees
A walnut cracks open into halves
by air or strength we do not know
but it’s happened: corpus
And the child looks for her own
Everywhere, not enough.
Everywhere, not full.
If we aren’t unhappy with this, then it’s something else.
Our minds buzzing, our hearts like scooping mud
From a lake that keeps closing onto itself.
Folding and drowning, onto itself.
Even if we desire, we cannot enjoy this
Browning avocado, its bright fleshy layer waiting underneath.
Why are avocados so difficult, we wonder?
Why is this home hot in the summer and cold in the winter?
The bees are collecting their pollen
From the wall of jasmine
Tea leaves, tightly-knotted and tightly-wound,
form a constellation in the clay pot.
As the air and breath grow thin,
the dark leaves thicken,
and form a bed of seductive seaweed.
You, water, were enfleshed by unsuspecting forms:
As a misshapen cactus, two-feet tall,
as a copper fur fox
roving across the canyon,
as sapphire blue dragonflies
dreaming of their lakebed.
There is a splinter so heavy
that only love can remove it entirely
and every woman has this splinter.
Let them bury
Let whoever visits
my tomb be distracted
Lost in the wilderness between
my heart and mind
I wandered in the desert
I laid down
in the twilight
a few hours
as if I were in my bed.
Her head was a snow globe, no definition
of lips or jaw or cheekbone.
Her nose was a mound of putty
yet to be cast into shape.
Her eyes were black and reflective
holding little of their own, drinking in
Leela’s poems are bits of her body – pieces
of her throat.
Since her body and the moon are one,
then her poems, although weavings of the flesh,
are no less weavings of the moon.
The little girl inside you
sings out loud as she draws,
licks her fingers,
and rolls in dirt.
The little girl is free and pure – close
to the Goddess' heart, sitting by her throne.