Canadian
THE RESURRECTION OF THE CLOWN
Once she died
she stopped changing
and became so clear
she could reemerge
-- her bright brittle spunkiness
her off-key songs
her delight in balloons
her dogged
practicing
of tap dance
how her body closes in
when she makes love
her limbs and thighs
and face
concentrating
on joy
These aspects of her
and more
week after week
appeared to
members of the Clown Society
who whispered
about the phenomenon
And former members of her audience
noticed an event
a motion
their memory pulled and twisted
until they could name
where they encountered
her
In this manner
she was reassembled
in other existences
part
by part
until she was reborn
with her own mind
altered by the lessons
death teaches
to the living
ANTHEM: UNDER THE HORNED MOON
Often the crescent moon
sails stiffly vertical
Other times it floats
almost on its back
This night
I am driving 1-84 west down Gorges
into the open arms
of a horizontal horn of light
During my years
beneath the moon's phases
I, anxious and exhilarated,
have steadily felt the road
coming toward me like a spoon
toward a baby
the asphalt pouring under the vehicle's
hood, front bumper
The highway's distances
feed me
As I cover ground,
I am simutaneously racing closer
and away
The motion perfect
perfectly lonely
like this moon
I HATE LOVE
by Di Brandt
It just hurts like hell and
where does it ever get you
watching the heart open
against wishing against
the old wound's wisdom
again again the prairies
folding your desire
like postage stamps licked
and sent the air full of
messages contrary to logic
contrary to the space that
exists between us that's
what you said you're too
far away and me not remembering
the geography the days of
the week not remembering
distances only the light
falling slanted and radiant
around you in the kitchen
your arms strong and tender
in spite of the words said
and not said in an afternoon
where does it ever get you
BENDS
Erin Moure
What the heart is is not enough.
That I can open it and
let you enter
an ocean so dense
you'll get the bends if you surface.
That you will be open to the love of every being:
I crave this,
it makes me possible, anarchic, calling
your attention,
your fingers on my ear or soft neck,
the light on each side of your face, altered
as you speak to me
Oh speak to me
I have a friend who says the heart's
a shovel, do you believe this?
My heart is a wild muscle, that's all,
open as the ocean
at the end of the railway,
a cross-country line pulled by four engines
Whatever it is I don't care, it is not enough
unless you see it
unless I can make you
embrace and breathe it, its light that knows you,
unless you cry out in it, and swim
