Margaret Magnus


She sighed ...

Millions of green apples grew on these dotted trees.

A whisper ­
Her wrists floated
And her eyes grew wild and strange
The sorrow, the darkness, the winds
She swallowed

Little red spots sprinkled the hillsides.
A smile
The tears knotted in her silent throat
And her being swelled with sorrow
The knot slipped
And they flowed freely
Into her apron

And apples plopped down to cheer the aching earth.

A caress
And the evening colors rose above her head
And the untouchable tendernesses of the spaces
Drifted behind her aged eyes
Drop down your weary head
Down deep
My breast and belly

The summer leaves scattered their colors into patchwork.

Forever and ever
My holy one
She said.
The slightest softness
In your glance
And I will shriek in
Never outgrown
With your greenery again

And the few remaining leaves fluttered to the forest floor.

I sit
Beside you on your funny little throne
Mistress of the Winds
Goddess of the Fires
And you look the other way
At the doorknob, say
Or the net receipts

The first flakes mingled with the naked branches.

Let your sorrow lie
And howl with me through the forests
I am graceful and wild and free
Well beyond your understanding
I slip through the dawns
The evening scent
The withering
The buds
The moon and its willows
The whispered song
Of the saint on his rounds
Let me sink in your stomach
And whistle out the festering
You will be clear
Your face will grow hot
In my embrace

And the white snow settled into dark and silent winter.

And it was that moment
When all was dead and cold

She said