When I was the red umbrella, her love, I made a precision of hoist. And got

so good you couldn’t see me erect. Prone I arched like the snake of a vine, the bank

of a tree limb. I gathered moisture from air and I put buds in her black wrath

of hair. I wanted all bees to swim us, roped through breeze, our spiny ribs licked

I begin with          a design for a hearse.

For Christ's sake          not black —

nor white either —          and not polished!

Let it be weathered —          like a farm wagon —

with gilt wheels          (this could be

applied fresh          at small expense)

or no wheels at all:

By Andrew Marvell

Had we but world enough and time,

This coyness, lady, were no crime.

We would sit down, and think which way

To walk, and pass our long love’s day.

Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side

Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide

Of Humber would complain. I would

Love you ten years before the flood,

And you should, if you please, refuse

Till the conversion of the Jews.

My vegetable love should grow

Vaster than empires and more slow;

An hundred years should go to praise

Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;

Two hundred to adore each breast,

But thirty thousand to the rest;

An age at least to every part,

And the last age should show your heart.

For, lady, you deserve this state,

Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear

Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near;

And yonder all before us lie

Deserts of vast eternity.

Thy beauty shall no more be found;

Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound

My echoing song; then worms shall try

That long-preserved virginity,

And your quaint honour turn to dust,

And into ashes all my lust;

The grave’s a fine and private place,

But none, I think, do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue

Sits on thy skin like morning dew,

And while thy willing soul transpires

At every pore with instant fires,

Now let us sport us while we may,

And now, like amorous birds of prey,

Rather at once our time devour

Than languish in his slow-chapped power.

Let us roll all our strength and all

Our sweetness up into one ball,

And tear our pleasures with rough strife

Through the iron gates of life:

Thus, though we cannot make our sun

Wise Women Also Came

Wise women also came.

The fire burned

in their wombs

long before they saw

the flaming star

in the sky.

They walked in shadows,

trusting the path

would open

under the light of the moon.

Wise women also came,

seeking no directions,

no permission

from any king.

They came

by their own authority,

their own desire,

their own longing.

They came in quiet,

spreading no rumors,

sparking no fears

to lead

to innocents’ slaughter,

to their sister Rachel’s

inconsolable lamentations.

Wise women also came,

and they brought

useful gifts:

water for labor’s washing,

fire for warm illumination,

a blanket for swaddling.

Wise women also came,

at least three of them,

holding Mary in the labor,

crying out with her

in the birth pangs,

breathing ancient blessings

into her ear.

Wise women also came,

and they went,

as wise women always do,