VALENTINE´S

No zucchini flower, fecund work complete,

to pass through lightest batter

and crisp in new- pressed olives´ oil,

nor tomato red as lips

to shoot warm burst of juice and seed

from crushing teeth to tongue,

nor sun-burned limbs to stride bare

into chill rivers,

nor perfume of August grass fresh-cut for seed

to rise on evening air.

Instead, months of cabbages and broccoli

bred for winter hardy heads

but never ripened fruit,

and squash of thick skin, hard dry flesh

and seeds to toast for nuts,

and skin chafed raw by woolen

to find relief in flannel sheets,

and homey scents: simmering stew and wood-fire smoke

to lull with familiarity

in long dark evenings stuck indoors.

Out of reach of tree-ripe fruit

so recently had for the plucking,

the winter heart-fearful-fails in faith,

thinks to hoard the lively lust, takes Cupid´s shape,

shoots arrow of possession to poison passion

with romance: "I desire you;  you will belong to me."

Out of bored capacity rise crushes,

bubbles of ridiculous desire

to be possessed, enrapt, to wrap round lover´s limbs

for no real purpose but to fill an emptiness;

which bubbles, bursting,

loose entangled mismatched pairs

to torture themselves to couple

or, broken-hearted, part.

AFTER READING AKHMATOVA AT MENOPAUSE

I.

When-if I come to be the Old One,

placid, huge, in a half-cave by the sea

to be kept on vision and rain water,

what, then, about my young mouth

hungry for a kiss, for one particular deep kiss-

distracted by the back of your white thigh

as we talked business on the patio

that August afternoon.  Not fools, we guess

the taste of disillusion.  We stay friends

only.  But that kiss -

Will it then be as real

as if it had

happened, my throat closed tight

with tears and want?

II.

A roll so crisp-crusted its crumbs crackle

onto the table linen,

tan against pure white, a dish

of palest yellow half-inch squares

of butter to spread on the soft insides

and crush with your teeth against your tongue,

cool, and sweet, and yeast,

as you watch sun-whitened sails

skim against blue sky and the slate expanse

of the Columbia and pretend,

almost believe, that this world

where the two of you have slipped away

for a late lunch-

that this is where you belong.

III.

A post-and-beam house at a bend

in the river, a wide place come upon

by canoe some years ago

that now, by miracle, is yours

and hers.  You will fight

for watershed, the river become

your veins, yours its capillaries.

What use What if?  I left,

my souvenir a spoon, glass-carved

from a two-by-four.

And every Sunday when I stirred

up bread, afraid of your

clairvoyance, I cleared my head

of names-my own, my town´s.

I gave instead the fallow field

across the road, its falling down barn

and the Could-Be-Any River,

a flow from a source to a sea

by the lowest total energy,

each branch point

taken into account.

 "I am alive..."

a poem is a poor substitute for life

DANGEROUS

I defy the rules

of "Bind your feet" and "Bind your breasts,"

button the State-issue chambray shirt

over bare skin,

walk out into the late-June sun,

sit on the young grass, and dare

to take off my shoes.

On the soles of my feet, grass-tickle;

on my nipples, summer heat.

I tense my legs and hold my breath,

tip my hips minutely

and control by a strong act of the will

my arms lifting to embrace,

my tongue and teeth and lips shaped to kiss hard

the casually inviting one

also lying on the grass,

head inches from mine,

body at an angle of 110°

like hands at four o´clock

on a whimsical garden chronometer.

 --These poems by Katherine A. Power

HomeMakers

Nat King Cole croons in the corner.

In the other corner Kathy briskly stirs

One pot and watches two others.

She half turns and half shouts

"I´m sorry the beans came from a can."

Trisha and the monk examine

The thermostat´s wonky attachment to the wall.

We´re happy Kathy´s cooking

Because that means dinner will be delicious

It already smells good.

We don´t care at all if the beans came from a can-

We´re just grateful she´s cooking.

Trisha slides into the kitchen on Nat´s smooth voice

Where Kathy is busy with a small orchestra of hot pots. 

Trisha cozies up behind her,

               snuggles up close

               and begins to waltz in place.

   They can´t help but dance

   In front of the stove.

They sway to the music

Under the influence of home cooking

They swoon for a moment in

Home made warmth

Home made affection

Home made love.

(This poem was a gift from a visiting monk.)