A man who surprises the goddess bathing, naked
in full blush, head and shoulders haughty above
her scurrying handmaidens, who stumbles

upon her by accident, in an idle moment
as you or I upon the full, clear moon
over the mountain's white shoulder
driving, some January afternoon
the mundane highway. Such a man

in shift
from man of action to man the actor
in her drama, in transition, on the cusp
unaccountable, inarticulate, awkward
within strident grace

dies at the hands of his companions

dies in the teeth of his training, his prized hounds, dies her death as image of his desire-wild, elusive
specimen, silhouette
on a high ridge, leapt
out of range, out of bounds
except to accident, the tricks
of idleness, subtle art
of intention at rest, of the huntress. He dies
in the noise of his name, his friends shouting
"Actaeon, Actaeon. . .," wondering
at his absence, missing
the thrill of the kill.
And "Actaeon," in tone

innocent, excited
echoes today in its exile (unchosen, undeserved
and not bad luck exactly) echoes

because he cannot answer, strains to
through his muzzle, soft lips, thick tongue
of the herbivore, makes sounds

not animal, not human
and cannot and dies

in a body made exquisitely
for life, a trophy, a transport

for his name, lapsed quickly

on the lips of his companions (never
comprehending) on my lips now

ironic, uncertain, changed as he

who saw her
saw through the guise of modesty and boyish
enthusiasm her bright body wet
as any mortal's, saw

through no effort nor virtue nor fault
of his own, his eyes a deer's eyes

darkening, widening, feminine, startled
who otherwise would be unknown to us.

Open Season

In the first autumn frost of 1963, my brothers
coasted their punt to stillness in some marsh reeds
at the mouth of the Fraser River, and shot a pair
of rainbows from the sky. The mantle piece of my parents'
home would display those stuffed greens and blues for years;
I'd later steal the glassy eyes to replace my aggies
lost at school. But that cold morning, I wasn't around,
when those quick mallards fell, when my brothers woke
in the same sparse room and spoke together almost
gently of the coming kill. I wasn't born. No myth
but theirs will line this poem, and no deaths either:
they're so young they can't foresee the rift
that time will tear between them. Maybe I know
where they were the night the two most famous shots
of the year brought down an empire's arcing prince,
but they don't know. Last month? Last week? Maybe
they were shooting pool at Dutchie's parlour or drinking
beer in the parking lot outside the rink. Maybe they
had bagged a ring-necked beauty in the pumpkin fields
behind some barn, or hung a spring-net at the cannery.
Hell, maybe they pressed their mouths against our mother's
swollen belly and told me secrets no one else could tell.
They don't remember anything about those days, and if
you can't remember how you loved your brother in the breaking
dawn, why would you care about the famous dead, or the fact
they died at all? My brothers were close as those two birds that flew above the marsh; they're not close now. Myth-making isn't in their blood, or mine, and it's not my business to wonder where they stood the moment that their friendship died. Maybe they whispered something to me. Maybe they said, "Little brother, you'll only know us when we're changed. But we were once another way." Maybe they just laughed and said "he packs a punch."
I don't know. I might as well still be sleeping in the womb
with rainbow bruises on my temples, while my brothers pass
their frozen blue into my nephews' eyes.

Love Poem, My Back to the Fraser

Whale jaw, jack-spring spine, rock cod gill,
scallop under the skin of my hand; these
are the bones I'm burying now. Tomcat skull,
sparrow wing, spaniel paw, full moon behind
my bluest gaze; I'm planting them all.
No animal returns to gnaw its gnawed limb
left in a trap; I've thirty years to dig
the deep six for, and hard shoulderblades
to gunnysack. Darling, carry the spade
for me, chant my years without you down;
I want the sunlight on a new foundation,
my old bricks in the wormsweet ground.
Cattle hock, heron claw, muskrat rib,
mast I hang my breathing from; I'll part
the grass and roll the die; I'll build
new castanets: here's a fresh gentility:
as the hummingbird twines its tiny nest
of spiderweb and moss, so I build
my hope and sleep from the marrow
of your kiss.

I HAVE KNOWN MALE SMELLS

I have known male smells
the sharp tang of sweat
he acrid biting odour of after-sex
the early morning heaviness
the chlorine-bleach smell of semen

Sharp, insistent, demanding scents

Now I learn my own scents
Soft pervasive woods-and-moss scents
musk and secrets
shadows and invitation

A very different world

Much
gentler

YOU

You
are Woman
You
are power
sheathed in softness
finely toned muscles
beneath velvet skin
clinging to me

You
are Woman
ripe scented and damp
enfolding me
holding me safe
your voice soft
in my ear
your breath warm
on my skin

There is safety in you
and nurturing

You renew me

You
are woman

DO YOU KNOW

Do you know
when you are lying with me
my hands on your bum, stroking,
my fingers teasing, exploring, entering,
Lips pressing
mouths fused
tongues touching
Do you know
what I mean
when I say
I Love You

Do you know
your nipples become pebbles under my palm
your belly softens
your thigh muscles tighten
your legs become rock hard, cling to me

Do you know
when I say
I Love You

I mean it

WHY

Why
do you trap your breasts
in nylon cages hide your nipples,
mask your body scent
with baby powder
and lock your
satin soft body
from sight or touch

Why
do you attack your body hair
with scissors
and razor
trim your bush
into submission
and flush the snippets
down the toilet

We
have lain together
soaked in sweat
on sheets rumpled and creased
by hours of love.
Then
as the storms receded
you noticed
your menstrual blood
on my fingers
and you were
appalled
because I was not,
and I do not
understand

I have not met a man
so strong as the snake
who grabbed my ankles
and wrestled me to the ground.

No, not even you, Jacob.

If in that night,
I had a branch,
I would have chased it off.

But the enormity of it,
the promise of its poison!

At long last,
the liberating of my thighs
to the cry of birth.

Forgive me, dear Jacob, forgive me

but I too have wrestled,
with this monster
called Love.