To my sister for life.
My sweet, Sarah Transmitter.
Send, for our rescue, your signal
for this aeroplane has went to shit:
this aeroplane called going down.
I am attachment, I am suffering: born of a fruition our own.
I am underneath overhead compartments in passengers our own.
I am our conscious and unconscious needs and desires our own.
I am the seat belts attaching us to these, our seated lives, our own.
You are earth and water:
out of pungent soot, out of crumbs of soil,
your stem breaks through, as a root,
into sediment, prodding, incubating in the shape of an egg,
and hatching from a green-pod: bearing your petals that
declare to the world: this is the birth of a blossom of a rose.
Yet, to requite in words of love, it is not simple enough.
One might say, “Romance is not so simple, Princesses from Disney.”
Metal with hair that kills is bottled, and labeled with skulls to sing,
“To each assign their thorn.” Love is not a gift enough for our and your rose.
Is being a noble woman, really the only way to achieve receiving a famed rose?
Oh dreadful Arousal! Without enchanted castles, it would be a one-night rose–
a stanza made up of some immature men made of mice-stuff.
Remember you illuminate, you educate the mind, that saying love,
without physical love, is love: love enough.
A stirrup holds a squire on horseback.
Made to hold up the knight over distance, over distance,
over distance—the knight in shining armor still, at a distance.
Somewhere she stigars, or climbs, up her horse mate’s side.
There is leder, or leather, to hold her feet on each side.
She whips the reigns, toward the setting sun, the squire and her ride.
Apollo and Diana are in eclipse.
The maiden and the bride are phases of the moon.
Both set at the end of the day and at the end of the night.
Looking long for the crab that bit Heracles that Hera sent
to the constellations at twilight.
There is neither woman nor man and both are in her fame.
Her name is Tank, she is water, and out of the water,
after we rinse a face, in praise of the moon, we look and find the color blue,
in uniform, on Sundays, with work and money we pursue.
One day, your children, our friends, our family will be at peace
on a farm, and you are and will be our mother earth: I look to you in the north
and when I stand up from meditation and find my legs,
I, now, have confidence. I breathe in and I breathe out.
In the breathing room bells ring. Here’s to another year,
and to you, from a brother, to you, the sister, I endear.
July 16, 2015