Coda by Marilyn Hacker

[gynaikeion.livejournal.com]

Maybe it was jet lag, maybe not, but I was smoking in the kitchen: six, barely, still dark: beyond the panes, a mix of summer storm and autumn wind. I got back to you; have I got you back? What warmed me wasn't coffee, it was our revivified combustion. In an hour, gray morning, but I'd gone back to my spot beside you, sleeping, where we'd stayed awake past exhaustion, talking, after, through the weeks apart, divergent times and faces. I fell asleep, skin to warm skin, at daybreak. Your breasts, thighs, shoulders, mouth, voice, are the places I live, whether or not I live with you. ( Fog hid the road. )

She Falls Asleep in Strange Places - SANDRA BEASLEY

[mirmusing.livejournal.com]

When Sita’s father calls he does not speak
of the car left running in the cul-de-sac, sirens,

a spill of potatoes and jackfruit on pavement.
He says only She falls asleep in strange places.

The front door is reluctant to Sita’s touch,
their foyer sour with old newspapers. Where

are the slippers? Where is her mother singing?
Leaving the hospital her mother sleeps

on the ride back, sleeps for the next two days.
Sita oils her mother’s hair, braids it scalp-tight.

She sings the songs of afterschool, recalls
her mother bending down to unlace her shoes;

a whiff of cardamom; Disney Channel until six,
so often that same cartoon—she vacuums and again

waltzes with owls. Soprano, soon-to-be-
princessed. For a year, her name was Aurora.

She asks her dad if he remembers. She asks him
to practice IVs on an orange. On the third day,

her mother wakes. Her mother calls her
Dalit. Her mother says Stop using good linen

on the dead. Her mother closes her eyes.
Her mother is just soft murmur and curl.

Sita finishes fluffing the pillow. That night
she dreams not of the Beauty but the sorceress,

green-skinned, unable to accept the party
has gone on without her. Who wouldn’t be tempted?

This will only hurt a bit, the witch had promised.
Such a fast wheel. Such a pretty spindle.

An Lon Dubh Báite - Séamas Dall Mac Cuarta

[seasight.livejournal.com]

The Drowned Blackbird

Lovely daughter of Conn Ó Néill,
sleep long after your great loss.
Don't let your noble kinsmen hear you
weeping after your treasure's death.

The song of that swift, nimble bird
is gone for good, my beauty pale.
But where's the treasure brings no trouble?
Hold a while, don't beat your hands.

Not beaten hands and streaming eyes
but silence, my noble beauty.
Lovely daughter of Conn Ó Néill,
the bird is dead, don't wet your eyes.

O beauty, grown from kings of royal Ulster,
be steady now; it is better than raving wild.
Your small bird laughing loveliest on the bough-tips,
fret no more for his death: he is washed in lime.



A iníon álainn Choinn Uí Néill,
is fada do shuan tar éis d'áir;
is nach gcluin uaisle do chine féin
tú ag caoineadh do spré tar éis a bháis.

Ceiliúr an éin lúfair luaith
theastaigh uait, a fhaoileann bhán;
cha bhíonn tubaiste ach mar mbíonn spré,
is déansa foighid ó ghreadadh lámh.

Ó ghreadadh lámh is ó shileadh rosc,
glacsa tost, a fhaoileann úr;
a iníon álainn Choinn Uí Néill,
fá bhás an éin ná fliuch do shúil.

A fhaoileann a d'fhás ó ardrí Uladh na rí,
fuirigh mar tá, is fearr é nó imeacht le baois;
fá d'éan beag a b'áille gáire ar imeall na gcraobh,
chan ceist duit a bhás go brách is é nite le haol.







I really hope this isn't a repost. Apologies if it is.