"Lawrence, you were dried like vanilla beans
or grainy bananas in the desert that you rode
saddle-sandy, haphazard legs
thrown apart by the camel's hump
thrown joltingly by that croakers spitting trot
across the dryness." Do we remember
what grows in the desert? Poppy and sage,
too-long robes, and battle.
I wish I had lived in the Amazon for you.
You aren't Lawrence, but I wonder
if he saw in his displacement
the mirages which I saw, big glittering drinks--
and the real water was dusty and opaque in the sand.
When my back hit the sand I was thrown
haphazard. Blood spattered
so the droplets soaked into some sands,
and became rolled in others.
Between the blood, the mirages and the poppies
I never knew the desert was so dry.
I wrote you a story
about a glass of water
("A long drink of water," Smoky told Alice)
And like a garden, one day I will mother children
who learn to swim in Bermuda.
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