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.

"I have had a great deal of pleasant time with Rice lately, and am getting initiated into a little band-they call drinking deep dying scarlet."
- Keats to his brothers, January, 1818

John Keats and his circle in their cups
died scarlet. And the poet's life
to its dregs did the same, his linen
bedsheets and nightshirt finely spotted.
The world loves him for drinking so deep
from the few years he had, for those pretty
tipples he took from his days' good wine;
the world honours blood flushed in a pale
brow that bends above the blank pages in candle-
flicker, giving joy, believing. Vitality
is beautiful even coughed on a lace cuff,
o little red cosmos, little red heaven,
that last faint breath exhaled before dust
and the cold grave smothered his youth.

I don't know anything certain about the dead
except they're gone, young Keats and his brothers,
the two women named Fanny he loved, his friends,
the publishers who respected his art, the guardian
who didn't, Shelley with a drowned volume in his
shirt-pocket under Italian stars, gone. A century
of letter-writing, gossip, tuberculosis and poems.
And I don't know where the spirit of any poet goes
if it doesn't die scarlet wherever it can, Keats's
joy in October sunsets over the Adams River, full in
the salmon's scales as they scrabble to spawn before
the air eats to nothing their lace-threaded bones,
Keats's fear in the eyes of the ring-necked pheasant
shot out of its heart in the blue skies of my marshland
home, the long script of its bright death trailing
off into the ditches and rushes. I have heard the music
of his lines gasped from a thousand slack jaws
while the world stood crowded on the riverbanks,
amazed; my hands have touched the spots of his truth
on a thousand downed wings still quivering in frost.
In my wrists live the ghosts of all the words
ever written in his, and his Queen's, English;
they gather in my pulses, drinking life, dying scarlet,
unrestrained in their gaiety and rowdiness, dying
like the salmon and the pheasant and the flushed
eves of fall, dying as a poet dies, face turned
towards what's left of his life, the spatter
of his joy's heaven on his clothes,
the light going out on his page forever, the wax
of the last candle on his nightstand melted down,
as he lies grieving for every second he's lost
of the sun: I don't expect to know the vivid dawn
that finally dissolved the gay circle of Keats,
but if I'm blessed to die scarlet on my native ground,
let the wind dig a grave for my pallid song.

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

They are in a room,
together. Their breathing, a rhythm of ages
rises and falls
in the small tempest of sleep.
One is a child, a girl.
Her breath, quick and light
falls as a petal of air
upon a small, rounded face
dreaming of the night's darkness
passing in grace of He
who answers prayers forever.
One is a woman breathing
taut and baited as one who is on the brink
of love's summation; passion
planted in the body,
now growing swollen and wanton
in the night's potted darkness, nurtured
on dreams of love lasting forever.
And she that is old, sleeps
still, body pulsing to the heart's sound
in the night's boding darkness
where dreams now
lie reverent to the mortal sound
that is not forever. Now
breath for breath's sake.