Poem

"Two Sitting Figures - New Orleans, LA"

This sculpture before me.
This thing I can name.
This black copper
—industrial, geometrical, anonymous.

Two bodies, I think.
A woman and man, I think.
A couple, I think.

The woman in peace.
Something about her legs, hushed before her.
Something about the way this face tilts away.

The man leans near.
Wants to hear.
Wants to say.

I want to ask if she is young or old.
(I can't tell.)
I want to ask if she's with child.
(I can't tell.)

Sculpture, your heads are those windows
built above doors.

Sculpture, your robes are stiff and stark.

Sculpture, does it really matter what you mean?

The pine needles gather at your toes.

This lizard takes to a shoulder,
soaking the heat.

And I take to this poem because
how else would I do it?

a poem called "Where It Hides"

"Where It Hides"

In the kitchen, while cutting mango.

With the folding of laundry at night.

Every time I straighten my toppled books.

In the green candy my aunt bought me in the shop below her job.

In the courtyard in summer under the fans.

With the smell of New Orleans under the oaks.

With the oranges Brod ate in the canoe on his birthday.

When the red apple glows a galaxy—cloudy with stars.

When the yellow balloon rolled toward my bike.

In the gold of my nephew's curls.

In the way they sing "free" with "me."

When I walk to get there because, really, what's the rush?