mary june brown

she had sung aloud, when’st alone quite unabashed she was

only the doors have opened to him and the room turns amber

where’st the sun has peaked its head around the corner

alas there is the stopping of the hands

alack there is the stopping of time

alas there is the stopping of forward’d fate

alack there is the how’st and the why’st of stopping

alas there is the flooded eyes and softened lips

alack there is the recollections of blissful tapestry

alas there is the memory of fall’d robes and Turkish towels

alack there is the opening up and there is trust

(And so this is Christmas, and What Have We Done?)

and there are their quietudes and their poetry and their wonder

there is this year, fate, deed, word, thought, destiny

“Every time you say it (or read it) you make another copy

In your brain” (they do not deny minds, nor bodies, legs braided)

touch her like this, hold her like that

she is loved, and now awakened, there is no sleep

Gustave Klimt knows and he knows and she knows

Ajai! Asia. Tantra. Blessed symphony

the one thing she is, is this: Brave. They must be brave.

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