In the Oaks
after Rilke

When trays of shining fruit appear,
you will be tempted.
When the god, needing something,
appears in the silent eyes
of one who will be leaving,
you will be tempted.
Your hand will reach for what it remembers.
Your breath will quicken.
You will be tempted by a story of the underworld,
a succulence so divine,
by the quiet ones, safe in twisted oaks.

You will let a man see
the imprint of grass on your breast.
You won’t tell him where you lay.
You will take the stories you want.
Let the dog days fall into water.
You will be tempted to stay,
eat mint—sharp, bright—from the creek,
listen only to rain.
When your tribe sets out on a winding road,
you will be tempted to follow them,
but will travel alone.

You will reach the other side of twelve years,
another spring, another oasis,
a snake crossing the path you walked
to honor the Lady of the Oak.
Another spring, another snake—coiled—
on the trail in the devil’s stomping grounds,
after you buttoned a woman
into her mother’s wedding dress,
seventy four satin covered buttons.
She is naked on the rocks
and you are tempted to ask
if she is certain it is time to smash her mask
and settle where three rivers meet.
  


‘In the Oaks’ appeared in
Central Avenue issue #12, November 2003