The Writeress

because of otherness
that she refuses the end of speech,
or fears herself
as participant in its bruising

frightened by description, she writes
girl-like on a reading sofa
such things as fail vitality:

strength of a lain field,
eyelids erupted to pink warmth,
carried agape on breezeback
toward the spoons of unsalty waves,
bamboo that rustles
as she limps slowly beside catchings
of bees, for freedom’s sake,
all for freedom’s sake

the pour of rhythmic boredom
in so mindful a smile
whose tools disarm the pose
of an expected warrior

words that help to melt
the bounty of images,
waxing into aging sleep
whose point is to sing a dream
of wonder
where the prophets
tread on ungathered clouds
next to the sooth-tellings of stars


(c) J. Celan Smith