What the Muses Leave Behind

Mickey’s Bradford is blooming deep in Central Harlem deep in the place where even weeds are named where precious is knowing who lives here who is fat with fruit and seed who died yesterday who lost the nerve to flower today - precious Mickey’s Bradford is brave and blooming maybe there are no dandelions now sacrificed to salad – see where brave got them monocot clones muscle apart  the concrete pads tethering Mickey’s front door to the pulse of big apple stealth never sleeps somewhere a dogwood winter has wolfed a billion blossoms casualties noted, precious but not in Central Harlem bloom Bradford bloom!

The blood moon needs attention. She bangs the glass panel by panel as she passes through the naked canopy of oak and ash - she's desperate for praise, for veneration, for the long moments of worship like the early days: a world lit only by fire. It's not until she pours those globs of gold into the amber goblets in a south window, that I notice six little lanterns of moonlight,  flush with her fire, ringing like sonorous treasure, like a suspended chord, a perfect 4 th in salty satin harmony with the sky. I devour the scene with my eyes, my ears, my skin, my tongue, my heart - a feast of Indian ragas.   And just as my body shivers in its own light, the showboat glides behind a cloud.  "Shalom, Shalom," she sighs.

What if we go now beyond forest into carnival surely nothing grows lost like they told you all things pass even the great blue skimming the canopy dragging my line of sight with it all things bang for deeper understanding a breeze to toss each breakthrough dog with a bone  they told me  it doesn't have to look any particular way leave palms open to go Where

(from Serrano Peppers by Jane Hirschfield after my uncle was hit headon by a teen texting) Remorse as with smashed hands first there is adrenaline, then just anguish, what urgent message, pressing call, what thief of presence, slothful larceny exacts such unkind toll: the wherewithal to hold a wrench, tie a shoe; plunder rendered to wanton absence; lightning strikes a cherry in bloom, so weeps the wind.

From open windows, sip deep breaths, Count your blessings, no kidding Count them. Croon a mantra of Yes and thank you. Still awake at half past? Make it a monk’s rising, Rock and pray with favorite song or poem; finish that chapter with a cup of peace. Still awake at five? Roll out in goddess stretch or child’s pose, Chant deep desires as pranayama. Still awake at five thirty? Swaddle worry in lavender. Open a beautiful journal, From nib of favorite pen, bleed out a list of ways to laugh. Drink a glass of bubbly.  Burp u p busy mind, and let dawn slumber take you.

This day wants to wear a pink badge and be naked as the faces women post on Facebook honoring women who struggle through a chemo hell that kills their cancer that takes their breasts  that  teased a lover's lust that fed babies that sobbed like the gasp of first light that speaks  to a wobbly body as it emerges battered from the wages of slumber before seven from wonky dreams --- holding bird sculpture -- villages waving with alarm --  timid lovers learning to dance together  while thinking  about fucking --  even the cakes were delicious  without  being eaten -- this day breathes in  second grade  and bad jokes -- making me  blush  for I can feel  it comb  private recesses  behind  my heart --  already  it has found  the secrets  I keep  from myself. Ahimsa,  tender day -- ahimsa, and  bless  this mess of rising.

TADA!! The filmy blue  heaven  tosses  dreams of  hairballs and high wire fences high enough so their menace transfigures into t ight curls  of rose petals or miracle fetaled inside  a stiff chrysalis  coated in  sand - Pick one  before br eathing again - LISTEN There is always soft patter, knocking about the April rain - a pulse that syncopates  from cacophony  to heart beat.  It bounces among spring peepers and the waxing wail of owls,  while rabbits freeze in place screwed down like  jar lids - Pick one without looking - JUMP The ground still sumptuous in melt water wants to hold the fallen in its wormy cradle. Up to our knees  the best thing to do is pray like tendrils beside a strong river  Nile Mekong Ganges Yangtze Danube Orinoco Zambezi Missouri  Irrawaddy Pick one with only your ears- FOLLOW