Diaspora ad Aspira

(2007)

A feather-throated symphony was canvassing the holocene

from the coronary colonnades to the cantilevered palisades.

The oriels were heard; the oracle concurred.

Under a total eclipse of the sun, your coronation had begun —

your crown of crystal tourmaline a gift from ancient Aberdeen.

Nobody opposed your parallax throne.

When the meridian set fire to your viridian disguise —

your majesty unrecognized — you felt cold and alone.

Looking for a place to build a nest, following the sunlight to the west,

where foliage grows thicker in the lungs and legend says that this song was sung:

Diaspora, ad aspira.

Your orioles were fluttering like angels in the holocene.

Somewhere in the atmosphere the zodiac was crystal clear.

We’re following stars. We’re swallowing stars.

When we were young and principled, in rented cars (that’s how we roll)

and making love in mobile homes, we felt old and alone.

The caravan grew weary of the days; the feathers in your hair were going grey.

The plumage grows the thickest in the heart, so that is where we did rightly start.

Diaspora, ad aspira.

Lay your hands in my hands and protect what you cannot mend:

foliage and skin folding, intertwined.

Lay your hands in my hands and pretend that you can mend

foliage and skin folding, intertwining.

Digging in the frozen ground, searching for your stolen crown,

wandering in terrariums, growing old with you.

A lesson from the sea anemone: loving you is natural for me.

The roots are most developed in the heart so that is where we did rightly start.

Diaspora, ad aspira.

And I will always be there.