Last

I was the Last
and am Last no longer.
Do not blame yourself, Magician,
no, you have not wronged me.

Not one of my sisters was born
who could feel what I have felt:
Regret, yes, but Love, too,
the aching in the breast.

I know regret,
but do not weep on my account
for I could not weep now if I wished.
No, please know- you have done me  no evil, in
changing me from unicorn to woman.
Had you not, I would have been driven to the Sea
and languished there with my sisters
 for the eternity we live.

And- more, I never would have known Love;
never tasted of mortality.
That I do not regret-only the leaving,
but I do not blame you for that either.
If you had listened to me
and let the quest end there,
in the middle of my tale
there would have come a day when I
welcomed death,
and there would have been no more unicorns in the world
how bleak a world would that have been!

I must go now,
rejoin my Glory
in the silver Lilac wood.
Must return to the rabbits and the deer.
I thank you, Magician. Truly, you have changed me
forever, but not for ill.
because of you I am the Last no longer,
and when all this world has faded away,
 I will remember Lir, and Molly Grue--
and you.
There is your immortality,
the love of a unicorn.

Sistine

Sistine

Below the painted heavens

and the hand outstretched

of God,

are tiles,

unnoticed, not seen.

They, so small across, span

the length of the room, the

hall, the

holy place.

Circles within circles

flowers blooming from chips of stone

turned to jewels by sunlight.

The same light that does not 

fully illume that exalted,

vaulted, beloved ceiling.

Geometric pattern-dance

made from mosaic,

proclaiming "glory, glory,"

in softer tones 

overshadowed by Angel song.

Footsteps, stumbling over

thresholds,

as all cross.

Their heads are tilted up in awe

A lost pencil

I just had it,
tucked behind my ear
and held there
by too thick rat's nest curls.
I've lost my pencil
the third one this week
to the black hole in my hair.

Now it joins the legion of bobby pins
and tortoiseshell patterned combs,
glitter from the year I was a faerie queen
and won "least surprising costume choice"

It's gone the way of styluses--stylusi?
and carved wood hair sticks
just an inch too short to stick out.
They should return when I shake out my hair
finger comb it into some
tiny semblance of neatness
but no.

wait, wait--no. that's a pen.
I was looking for that too,
and it will have to do
until I go to math.

Dancing on coals

Dancing on coals-
4:50
9th floor.

The cutter boy extends his hand

callused from working with heavy shears

since the shops reopened a year gone.

Flames are in his dark eyes,

“Gussie, here.”

I can hardly breathe, so I only nod

and take his hand.

Morris leads me into a dance, wild, and racing

I have to catch up the hem of my skirt

so as not to fall and be trampled.

Things are too crowded by the doorways:

no room for two more bodies there.

My breath catches in my throat,

the clamor is growing,

the windows are all open to dusk-grey air.

My shoes are too small and not made

for dancing on coals.

My feet burn as I stumble.

“Morris, I need air, I need—out.”

There are bonfires in his eyes, his face is glowing

and he nods, still holding my hand.

As we push through to one window

where the air is cooler,

he helps another girl up onto the ledge,

then another,

so they can breathe as well.

I raise a hand to his cheek,

my feet are burning and now my eyes as well.

I have only known him for this year,

when he delivered shirtwaists to my table.

But I want to be beside him

and he knows without saying.

He bows, then helps me to stand,

my hands shaking,

in the window frame.

I put my arms around him,

and kiss him long

longer than we have.

The flames behind us are growing.

My eyes find his, and

he lets me go, then follows me.

It does not take a long time to fall to the ground

even from nine stories up.

A guided tour of the McKay Library by a bored Library Aide before her shift

Submitted to BYU-I's last poet Standing 2014

Hi! How can I help you?

This is the circulation desk, check in, check out, put money

on your I card.

Only I can’t do that yet,

let me get a supervisor for you.

This way is the Commons-

cluttered with the coolest rolling tables and chairs ever.

You can meet people here

and read reference books.

A bank of computers,

 yes, they all print to any printer.

We have handy dandy cheat sheets with a how to,

or I can show you

if you like.

 Just there, by the elevator:

the post a poem board

with a mix of art and doggerel

for your enjoyment.

Oh, those are the stairs,

but don’t go down to the basement.

Alarms will sound

and  the creepy things kept captive

down there, who knows what,

will probably eat you,

along with the Monday clean out lunches

from the break room

like my hot pockets.

Follow me?

Here are some of the general collection books.

Everything is sorted

by the Library of Congress system,

so forget you ever thought you knew dewey decimal

it can’t help you here

but I can

or one of those posters on the shelves.

but I’m cooler than paper (and paler too

as I’m always inside.)

Now, upstairs?

The tutoring center—math and writing

and all are here

above the east wing.

Make an appointment!

Down this way we have,

surprise, surprise,

more books,

even some fiction

(hush, it’s literature, old bindings with older text)

no, not Harry Potter

this is a college library.

Harry’s upstairs.

Also: study rooms! Perfect for writer’s circles

or private tutoring with friends

or hiding from zombie dinosaurs

(it’s been 65 million years since the last

Incident

but it never hurts to prepare.)

Past the special collections room

we have a bunch of neat stuff,

Like a book no bigger than a child’s palm

and Bibles just a few years younger

than dirt.

Shhhhhh. This is the quiet section.

turn off your phone

and for the love of Dickens

whisper.

Or you may be mobbed by

over worked study-stressed students

and the odd octopod.

Third floor,

you can talk again.

No really.

You can even chatter as you browse

our popular books collection

and books for the young

and young at heart

(yes, we have Harry Potter here,

and Hunger Games

and a great many books

you’ve never heard of

but may fall in love with)

Down the hall is the computer help desk

in case your macbook gets the flu

or gives up on chemistry.

And if you’ll look to your left,

the dragons are loose

walk, don’t run, for your life.

elevator’s around the corner.

Miracle

For Magpie 192

(Resurrection Reunion 2)

Note: This got away from me. sorrry.)

From the Journal of Ellowenni Chandler of  Rustlen Alley

A Memory of the 5^th of SummerMoon, in the year 230.

I remember that day, after the Riots and ended, when we were left to pick up the pieces of window and the bodies.

She was dead, that little girl. A street rat, yes, but she was a sweet one. She helped with the washing when my own girl was busy elsewhere. I don’t know that I ever learned her given name, just what she was called. Sparrow. It suited her, she was a bright little thing, her hair streaked browns and honey colors, her eyes dark. And always she was singing some little song.

But she was killed, in the riot. Riots seem like the answer to a bad thing, but I pray to the Goddess and Her brothers that my neighbors will see sense the next time there’s trouble. What will rioting do? It didn’t bring back those the City Headman murdered. It didn’t stop his vile magic. All it did was get that little songbird killed, and broke some windows.

We all came to stand at the grave yard, we mothers of Rustlen Alley. We knew the little ones, them as were Sparrow’s sisters and brothers, we knew her. Keeping them all would have cost more than we had, but a pie goes out the window when there’s extra, and pennies get left in the washing they do. We lived together, a family of sorts, even with walls between us. Mother Lily, the baker, gave out pennyloafs to them this morning, and we all came together, at the edge of the forest where the folk with no money are buried.

It was a boy who spoke the prayers and kissed her forehead, a blood-brother of hers, from his speech. Thias, the one as what nearly got killed, who exposed the Headman. I guessed he blamed himself, for the riot and all. Maybe he should have, and maybe he shouldn’t, that’s for the Goddess’s judgment, not mine. But my heart ached for him, and for little Sparrow. My little girl, Lea, she sobbed into my skirts. She’d not seen death before, but she wanted to come. So I brung her. Lea went up, and said a few words of her heart, a memory of sharing a meat pasty one wintereve. Then others, street children, Mother Lily, Sarri’s man, all to bear witness of Sparrow’s heart and life.

And then- Goddess and Brothers, I’d never seen the like. I dare guess I won’t see it again until I pass from this world. There were whispers from the crowd, and a girl, pretty as the moonrise came out of that wood like she’s walking on air. White as milk, with hair all dark but for one strip that gleamed silver like the Moon, she knelt down and put her hand- tiny and frail- on little Sparrow’s pocked cheek, and hummed a little song, Sparrow’s tune. But she’d put words to it, words none of us heard at all. I know because I asked, after, Mother Lily, and Sarri’s man, and any of the street lads, and they all shook their heads.

Because whatever it was, it was magic, pure as moonlight. That strange girl with eyes like silver looked at us all, and kissed Sparrow on the forehead, just as her brother did. My grandchildren will call me a liar, but I know what I saw, and what Lea saw. What we all were Witness to. I swear it by the Goddess, what I write is Truth. That little girl was dead. And then, she wasn’t. She opened her eyes and out of her mouth came that tune, and then Thias and the girl were singing it, the three of them and we all started humming it because what else was there to do but stand and gape?

 She was dead, I helped bathe her body and set her broken arm and then she was in her brother’s arms and not a one of us could keep from sobbing. It was a Miracle, I’ve no doubt, like all them histories I’ve told my Lea, all; them stories they tell at Temple. That little girl breathed in and out and in again, and the silver girl slipped back into the woods. No one saw her leave.

 I’ve asked after her, but no one ever seemed to know what became of her. Mother Lily always said she was Lanree reborn, come out of the Silver Tree to do the will of the Goddess. But somehow, that story never did sit right in my heart.

No. She wasn’t an age old hero, she was her own self. What that self might be, I can only guess. Because after the fuss had calmed, I left my Lea hugging Sparrow tight, and looked at the spot where she’d stood. I remember clear as day what I saw, and it wasn’t bits of Silver Tree or Moonsilver. It was a trail, like a deer track I used to follow when I was a child myself, gathering berries. No footprints, only hoofprints... and caught on the brambles, a single hair, gleaming silver as the moon.

always waiting

For Magpie 189

I'm always waiting.
For-
the right time.
The right time to pick up a pen
and write a story that will bring smiles to faces and tears
to eyes
but that time never really seems to come
so I stare at a blank sheet of paper and write nothing
because I can't get it just right.
And-
rather than write anyway, I wait.

I'm always waiting
For-
The right time.
The right time to finally start
keeping a journal of all the good things that happen
each day.
Like Doctor Williams told me to.
but I am always so tired, or can't think of what to say
Or I lose the journal in the black hole under the bed.
And rather than start again, I wait

I'm always waiting
For-
the right time
to come out and say it.
as roommates or relatives talk badly about
those
with mental illness, or liberal leanings
because I'm itching to shout in their faces
That I am a Bipolar, asexual, liberal Mormon
so shut up already, talking as if I'm worth less than you
but rather than say anything, I wait.

and the clocks and calendars
 tick away, rip away
and I'm still stuck.
so many things
unsaid
undone
unwritten

The right time never quite comes
count to three then strike.
1
2
3
no, count to five. twelve. one hundred
delay delay delay
but no more
no more waiting even though the time isn't right.
the right time has come and gone while I was busy
waiting