Posses Out Back, image by Sheila Murphy
This is New to Me,
and You are New to Me
In
New York, it is snowing.
All the blinds in Phoenix, Arizona,
have been drawn.
I am inside my warm home
this January evening,
Saturday.
I look at screen on screen,
pictures of shovels
and the pristine snow.
I crawl into your bed.
I crawl into the bed where you are
with me.
And the weather is not warm
or chill or tall.
The weather is a precipice
for falling in love
again, again.
Winter the lariat encloses me
and draws me back.
The shades are still,
with no sound on the evening street.
I hear keys tap.
I crawl in bed with you,
am warmed, and I am woven,
too, am wintering before the window.
You are as near to me as blood.
You are my heartbeat.
You are my slow descent into
a sacred sleep.
You are my heart inside the body.
Slowly being kind to how my soul is
sketched. My soul about your winter,
in a dream of sweet full winter.
Oh, my everlasting warm perfume,
that you may touch me there.
That you may foster sleep.
That I might know thee.
All the blinds in Phoenix, Arizona,
have been drawn.
I am inside my warm home
this January evening,
Saturday.
I look at screen on screen,
pictures of shovels
and the pristine snow.
I crawl into your bed.
I crawl into the bed where you are
with me.
And the weather is not warm
or chill or tall.
The weather is a precipice
for falling in love
again, again.
Winter the lariat encloses me
and draws me back.
The shades are still,
with no sound on the evening street.
I hear keys tap.
I crawl in bed with you,
am warmed, and I am woven,
too, am wintering before the window.
You are as near to me as blood.
You are my heartbeat.
You are my slow descent into
a sacred sleep.
You are my heart inside the body.
Slowly being kind to how my soul is
sketched. My soul about your winter,
in a dream of sweet full winter.
Oh, my everlasting warm perfume,
that you may touch me there.
That you may foster sleep.
That I might know thee.
They Sat Me Down
And
they explained a way to write
A
letter of application.
It
was the first time I heard someone say
“You
do not wish to apply; you are applying.”
They
turned my head, these two
Who
reputedly had driven around town
Without
a destination that night,
nowhere
to hide from the 50/50 chance
of
losing their one child,
a
three pound eight ounce person
who
knew enough to close her eyes
beneath
the lamp of vitamin D
poised
to save her life
and
likely take her sight
unless
she guessed a way
to
close herself away from beaming
light
against her face.
They
told me to say “mutually beneficial,”
as
though it were a formula for making
a
magnetic way to be
both
for the reader and myself.
“You
only need one,” my father said
about
the job.
That
comforted,
relieved
my fear
about
acquiring so few bites
on
my releasing leaves into the post
to
feed myself
for
three hundred some days
at
a time.
Morning Lullaby
His
eyes touch
Her
eyes touch
His
attention to
Her
attention
The
window
They
agree upon
Returns
the picture
Of
the bird yard
Every
morning
Evidence
Of
song and
Sweet
lawn
Sentences
recited
Form
a line
Of
tune
To
keep the time
Seattle, Arizona
Broth
distinguishes inside
from
constant clouds.
I
practice coffee.
Wear
dry quilt,
believing
pages change
sunlight.
Witness
protection surfaces
on
sidewalks,
dripping
storied
selves
beneath
these
literal umbrellas.
—Sheila
Murphy
