"what I want "
I'll be as direct as sheet metal
under the Texas sun-
flat, hot, blinding,
sharp on the edges.
In this way there will be
no misunderstandings.
I want a waterfall.
The water must be turquoise
and embellished with golden fishes.
They are necessary to spangle
the pool that will catch the flow
like a cup of pure epiphany
awaiting my lips.
Next, I require
(yes, I know but, from want to need
is just a breath, so I am easily there)
every book that sings.
I like the South Americans
who write poetic grocery lists.
I want to see the sky as they do-
bejeweled, broken-hearted,
touching their shoulders
or quivering with stars.
Stack the books by my bed,
high enough that I can
touch them as I sleep.
My window sills are to be galleries
for wings and husks,
acorn caps and little bones,
strands of your hair swirled into a nest
to hold the speckled egg you found
balanced on a thorny branch.
I will be the curator and the guard,
the patron and the thief.
Do you see now?
It is not so much.
I will leave this for the moon to clarify
and the spring tide to deliver.
I don’t mention the most obvious things:
the sea; a room with a lock,
the key on a blue ribbon around my neck;
music; a door that opens quietly
so as not to scare the wrens.
That list is too dull, too easily done.
I will not insult you.
Do only this-
raise your hand against the glare
and you will see, in the wavering light,
every answer that bears notice.
Every plain, parched explanation
will flicker like a flame
that has found its tinder at last.
© 2005 Dale McLain
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