the road to heaven

is a glassy lake between lilypads
in a blue December, in a damp-palmed
dogged spring. I lick my finger
and turn the page

but I am walking among redwoods
now, listening.

and here I am walking
this soft road, this forest path
this road leading to heaven
hike along the spines of fallen giants
and breathe in cloud and out fire
snap closed the books of myth and remember
that we are climbing, sorrel sour
in our mouths

walking the road to heaven.

somewhere along the road
there is a close room
a soft sigh
there...

and in my memory, the book of myths
is so many pairs of eyes, drawing me onward
the map of the road on my body, the secret
knowledge in my veins, my bones
clattering keys to doors I may never find

in my hands the memory of so many bodies
on my tongue the taste of forbidden juices
in my eyes the sight of heaven ahead
in my mind the memories of hell

and in my pack the book of myths
half-blank, the stories unwriting themselves
as I carefully trace the path
back to the beginning
in silence.

--3/4/01

Today's poem brought to you by a phrase that's been rattling around in my head for weeks, now. I need to write more; I am sorely out of practice.

I feel like I've got lots of things crammed into my head and no motiation to write. There's too much to talk about and it all wants to come out at once, or stay stuck inside forever.

Rollins last night, Jonatha Brooke tonight.

Busy girl!

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