….you have to become the person you need to become
to write that book.
Listless in the cool light
of afternoon, a lizard scans
the crevices along our wall
waiting for me to fetch
part of myself that’s a blend
of fence and skink
clinging to language’s strata
and burrowing under each crack
to find the hatched syllables
of a word. Then another and another
until a sentence leaps into place.
And on a drainpipe, a raven bangs
for recognition. Shaken leaflets
fall off the mimosa clustering
along her slick plumage. The Pleiades
sunlit in green. It’s time for shedding
( as Winter’s sister crispens the air)
and the bird baits me
to invoke part of myself
that arrives with risk, daring
to roost in the macabre rafters
Its beams splintered
and veiled with the intricacy
of spiders, the breath of characters
I have yet to raise from the dead.
“Fence” and “skink” are two kinds of lizards;; one clings to stone walls./fences. the other burrows under garden foliage for protection and to look for food.