On Sunday, I open up the house
to let in the June morning
to ease cobwebs from the empty rooms,
to efface dreams
adhering to surfaces.
The weather—
inimitable oppression—
has broken, and at last
we have a little serenity.
At noon, the time for baptism,
I strip the bed of its clothes—like a woman
praying for her old voluptuousness.
I wash the sheets in cold water,
laced with lavendar and mint,
hiding thyme in the corners of the mattress
to conceal the heavy taste of sleep,
and mad dreaming.
I make a breakfast of mango slipped
from the flesh, orange water, cheese
& bread sprinkled with oils and thyme,
sweet plums. All day,
I do not speak a word.
One afternoon, oh it was many of them,
I spent hours just sun worshipping.
It was easier than dreaming, you
could come away with a cleaner feeling.
The liquid feeling of sunshine in the veins
was clarity.
Every so often, teased by the suggestion of being born,
I stand naked in sun,
reminding myself of distant travelers who
prayed to the air or sang
parched hymns to a tranquil god.
I search for him in the dazed clover,
my fingers grazing sound,
the tender in the long grass, all summers
distilled and scattered through these empty rooms.
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