I love my inner darkness—
discovery within my within.

I am the medicine in the lights
whirling through quiet depths.

My medicine comes up for air,
out of silt in a pointed stone.

Out of sand on the ocean floor,
remedies rise like bubbles.

Peace lies in the velvet emptiness
— I love too much above and below.

I am still places arising from the black
of the heart, of the heat, of the hearth.

I hold my medicine inside the entrance
to ocean’s depth below where trees are

Disappointed, where earth is oppressed,
where reflection of water seeps through.

I take all I have abandoned, exiled,
interrupted from the darkness inside.

I swallow parts of my body, gulping
into the cold wet recess, dreams

Of bound feet, embroidered in gold and
orange, of thighs lost in pink blue sunset.

I welcome the grey tongues of elders,
of earthy wombs drowning in my fears.

I stifle their cries, so medicine allows
what is not yet born, not yet met, not

Yet finished. Their cries never fall away.
My medicine is here to lure, to lull, then

Enfold them in my endless lap. I go
eagerly to lose my waywardness.

Spare me of my emotions, of my mind.
I am responding to the goddess.

I bear a new way of holding uncertainty
as it flows through my changing brain
and transforms my language. 

Goddess is my midwife as I experience
this initiation into the other world.

I will learn to write without the words
that I speak. I will dance, make art,
create a garden, 

I learn to lose these words that have
flowed through me as poet, teacher,
and ritualist.

I will accept physical changes that
are important in ways I do not know
in order to move to the next stages
of my life and creativity.

Corona Has Landed

Her caravan of crowns
circles Earth: feverish,
invisible, mute. Corona

Braids her garland, poised
to steal the breath from
our aged, smoking men.

A steady struggle to reach
these silent startling spirits,
the very Ones we have so

Long waited for: the belated
Ones. We begged to save
all the dying creatures we

Had extinguished, One-by-
One. Sharp newly woven
thorns adorn the crowns,

And let Corona enter
the eyes, nose, tongue
of restless humans.

They wander in mucous,
lungs, the dripping hearts,
slimy guts of our species.

Corona leaves hummingbird
to fly in the sudden spring of
clean wind, air. Birds join 

Forests filled with trees
swaying in the dance
of freedom. Fish swim 

Without end in crystal lake,
who among us could forsee
the deadly edges of Corona’s 

Mercy as her silence takes
us in. The tongues of our
elders interrupted, their

Young exiled from crowded
Wombs of the forebears.
The New World cries 

“Undone!”

Corona — Rampant and Terrible

Our Questions: How can we approach
your spirit, Cornona? Your caravan
deposits drawn crowns in every habitat,
yet when we see you with our third
eyes, we sense your invisible mute
being— not your colorful spikes
surrounding our shivering souls—
both wealthy and destitute. 

Her Answers: You can braid my garland
of terror—  I am poised to capture the
panting breath of every human from
aged drinking elders to drooling
sucking babes. You can struggle
mightily to protect the silent
startling sentient beings.

Our Questions: If we reach you, would you hear
our cry for you to spare the very ones we have
been waiting for? Would you recognize our
belated ones, the sentient beings we walk
by everyday, the dying creatures we ignore
as we beg you to prevent us from
extinguising them one by one daily,
momentarily?

Her Answers: You will help me sharpen the newly
woven crowns. You can stop resisting as you let
me enter the human eyes, noses tongues abandon
restlessness. You can care for other species as
you let human mucous, lungs, bloody dripping hearts
cover the slimy guts. Save your tears for the ongoing
extinctions. Better yet save the animals humans
have damned to extinction.

Our Questions: How could we ask you to meet
us in the sky, leaving the hummingbird to fly
in the sudden spring of wind and air? Is it too
late for us to join you in the forests and fill
the cypress with raven dancing to the tune of
freedom? Would you meet us where the trout
 swims without end in the crystal lake?

Her Answers: Whom among you could forsee
the deadly edges of my mercy? Only the silent 
ones will take it in. The tongues of the elders
will be interrupted. Your young ones will be carried
along with the crowded wombs of the forebears. 

Who sends the droplets surging through the air?
A silent crone whispering, and the force inside
her crown may enter the holes in our faces.

We will pay attention to Her invisible moves,
imagine pain at our core— exquisite messenger—
and we will run quivering, until Death earths us.

These months rehearse us then; our days like
school. We surrender to the creatures who
teach us— try to hold onto life, to love.

We’re only cocoons, just wanna-be butterflies,
we writhe in tree tops above the dirt, the swaying
branch, the bud, the flower, moss, and root.

When thunder shivers and breathes with our kind,
we fly into the wind then land alone and below.
Metamorphosis plays for keeps.

It was a cold October night for Hang Nguyen. She had
reached shelter inside the classroom, yet bent forward
over her dictation— resisting still that shove of chill air—
she fought in the community college parking lot.

Her slight oriental frame shivered in a metallic orange
desk. Fluorescent light cast a gray spell on waxy black hair.
She pulled it back severely. She couldn’t intrude
upon silent, relentless flows of her boney fingers.

She was one with the number-two pencil along a flat
yellow surface of a legal pad, flushed against a
floor-to-ceiling window—comprised the back wall.
The window was on diagonal— resplendent in its

Burgundy vertical Venetian blinds. Hang never raised
her fiercely-focused eyes above melon-like globes of the
enormous, blue, plastic-rimmed spectacles. She looked
neither left or right at her fellow students in front of the

Room whence came the drone of the instructor. Under
the sequined-shell epaulets of a pink cardigan, her tidy
square shoulders remained taut, motionless. Her slender
neck did not strain under the weight of her thick plait of hair.

Shiny black polyester pants completely enveloped her
spindly legs, crossed tightly at the ankles. Her left-toe
balanced in its blue satin slipper while her left foot at a
slipper’s gold buckle remained suspended in air.

The instructor called for the finished papers. Hang
breathed in deeply and exhaled, her small breasts
emerging like twin sand funnels in an orlon beach.
Some color rose to her cheeks, as she released her pencil

Methodically, brought it to rest in place.
She allowed a slight movement in the back of her neck.
She pressed herself luxuriously against a molded plastic
seat, unfolded her legs, opened her beige-peach lip into

A slight smile, placing her dictation in hands of her friend,
Mo, to be passed forward, who had escaped from
Viet Nam with Hang. They lived in the same refugee
camp in Oklahoma before traveling by bus to San Diego.

I am the One who finds freedom in my dreams,
who is embraced by the dark cosmos,
and therein finds
the beauty of the constellations.

I am One who is delivered from
constraints of family script,
societal genesis, self-criticism
in the timeless beauty
and terror
of fantasy.

Who is it there, patrolling my air space?

I.
Solitary in bath water, assuming safety, confined in her
narrow Victorian house on Bryant Street, she surveyed
the Matisse print above the tub, traced primary

Colors around flowers held by his steadfast blue hand.
Pink liquid soap from the trustworthy plastic container
squeezed down her forearms, torso, legs.

Intrusion astonished her, never recalled the door opening or
saw the lock on the brass knob move. His little honey face,
almond-shaped, surrounded deep brown locks

Coiled up— like snakes. His eyes, moist, mellow, scalding
as fresh-brewed coffee, pierced the air towards her as
he stood. His rose lips, made for song— parted briefly.

Stunned as a bug, she felt heavy, never recalled waves
in the water and climbed out on drips as she glided
past his still-taut frame. Clutched rolled white cloth

In each hand, voiceless, naked, she ran for years,
never knowing if he followed her or looked back
towards the south where worship intruded unbidden.

II.
Years later, looking up to the sky, she saw instead—
grey rafters in a warehouse and all around her—
wide aisles, metal cases stacked to the ceiling

With razor-slashed cardboard cartons: cigarettes,
grass seed, tires, tomato sauce, fertilizer, styrofoam plates.
Dazed, she wandered about, pushing a tall metal cart,

Picking up a gallon jug of artichokes here,
a six-pack of sparking toothpaste there. A blow from rear
knocked her down. Kneeling on cement, she stared

Close-range at his long legs in pressed black trousers,
tidy cuffs, polished shoes. She rolled her head back,
noticed a white shirt, sandy hair, and pasty hands, yanking

A white plastic cone out of one pocket.
He conveyed a message with the tone of a lay minister in the
Sunnyvale Methodist Church: “Suck on this or I’ll kill you.”

Inhaling massively with closed eyes, she bore down on
the task at hand. The cold tip pierced her cheek and one
side of her throat. She cannot recall having stopped the effort

Or exhaled and she has not opened her eyes yet to
find out if he is standing there. She has not glanced
towards the north, where survival is cold and hard.

III.
Swallowing a little, with her eyes closed, she often
saw colors. One time, a singer slumped on a
gnarled log near a dried up inlet of the bay.

Waters reached his feet. Only last summer, but
have since receded. He sang to many before
the drought. The singer had blue eyes—

Downcast, a heart longing to play string
instruments with idle prophetic hands. Others
tried bolstering him, together, they lifted under

His wet arms. He sagged, went limp.
She looked sadly towards the west
where water is.

IV.
Never sure if she actually dreamed anymore,
she saw many things all the time anyway—
her eyes closed while continuing her task,

This time, she thought she had a dream because
she lay on a bed of moss, under Sitka spruce covered
in blackness. Winds screamed, warm rain seeped

Up in pool around her. On this island, there was no
way to tell if the storm would end. Bereft, forgetful of
other tasks, she called the watchman. She could not

Remember when the cone fell out of her mouth.
She opened her eyes, but made no difference as no one
could see in this place of darkness and night.

A disembodied voice said, “You can make no mistakes.
This takes enormous concentration and energy.
Yet, unless you express an original thought, you will

Never be paid for your work. Do you understand?
She opened her eyes and waited, gazing
towards east where the light would come up.

Fire on the mountain, wind,
lightning teach us change. 

Decades pass yet life speaks
in silent tongues of grass.

Change is nothing if not cycles. 
Life death rebirth, repeat.

Return. Fluidity reigns even
as we resist all transformation.

Just as we chart the curves
of a river, we believe nothing

Will change. As much as we
need water, we think we need

These lies. We will be forever 
young, never perish, always

Able to escape vulnerability,
To skirt decline, desiccation.

As we hear our Mother Earth
cry out, the winds of change

Send shivers through all that
is delicate in roses on the fence.

Their pink buds bask in the
sun of summer while silver

Spiders spin webs of deceit,
harboring within the knowledge

That they will last only days
or even hours. The ground 

Is peppered brown petals 
once plump, moist, fragile.

The honey bees stop to seek
pollen from the supple lilies 

Swaying as hummingbirds
hover to suck the blossoms

Knowing the season is short
and is for them too. This is

Change, this constant cycling
from seed to flowering to fruit

To withering. This will be missed.
The buzzing audacity of nature 

The imperative of all beings who
accept death as the grateful mother

Of all that is beautiful. Without the
unstoppable love of these changes,

Green one, mother, maiden, crone, 
wild one, horned one, sage, we are 

Lost from the change connecting 
the circling beings to growth,

Repose. We witness the stunning 
short lives of  our pets, the faithful

Beloved purveyors of the change
we are drawn to fear. Without 

Their sweet startling message
Of evanescence we are utterly

Condemned to worship stasis, 
to deny the undulating dance of 

Life’s seasons. It is solely in
great equanimity, that sense

Of change inherent in loss
That delivers a soaring sense

Of atonement, interconnection
of being that is found and lost

Again, fleeting as breath.
Grieve then for change,

Do not fear. To lose each stage
in the dance of life we mourn,

To love the transitions, to hold 
them dear, and to let them go.

The ancient rite of change is
nothing if not connected,

Embraced, honored by those
who traverse its spiral stages. 

April 27th, 1981

Count them dear, eleven dwellings
nine moves in thirteen years,
each made with reasons—
our feelings set aside.

Wonder we escaped the decade,
darling—army, commune, graduate
school, workaholic think tank, teaching
—three babes chiseled from the womb,

Daylight enumeration ending.
One night there is a dream.
I’m an unmarried Muslim woman.
Just won’t fit into the mold.

My eyes burn satin black quicksand,
weave an icy lightning bolt. Frantic,
I insisted to bicycle holy through

The streets and knew exactly where
to go black veiled anonymous complete.
Soon I reach my destination whitewashed
cubist house of stone

Clear blue sky all around it
reflecting blue sky and sun
like bleach dry bones. There
the bush grey poet approaches

Me as I dismount, takes my small hand
to feel his heartbeat, begs that I come
to France to stay. He says he can make
me happy. In the years that lie ahead—

Companionship and comfort calling, luring
me from my cold bed. I reflect his invitation
wholeheartedly. I flee into the building—
enter my stark barren room.

A red-bearded soldier awaits me—
urging me to leave this place, telling me
Hitler’s army is close at hand—
a desecrating thieving band.

It can’t change my iron plan. I take three
shiny oaken wood steps. There
a gold-eyed bronze Egyptian princess
waves her turquoise-studded hair

In her cocoa hand, a message, “Come at once.”
I have it all. I make my own stone gray refusal.
I remain here wholly certain I can survive
Hitler’s army. Following, I die.

The black veil lifts. I awaken, understand
why I’m here. I’ve never left home,
my love. Migrations of eighties
have no fear.