by Kathleen MacGregor

The wind is wildly throwing

itself through the trees,

and the streets.

And the trees, they are bending and twisting.

Peyote dancers feeling into the world

beneath the world.

The sound is like the ocean

slamming itself against the steady shore.

Then the wind seems to inhale.

Silence.

Just like when the water goes from noisy simmer

to boil.

For a moment it’s quiet.

Then the papers fly off the tables and

the cat hides under the bed.

I can see the gold finches clinging

tenaciously to the feeder.

My legs stretch out.

And I wonder

who knows I’m here?

By Pam Bolton and Kathleen MacGregor

What if I told you

It was me?

I picked up the stone

And threw it

At the bird’s nest

And knocked it down

To the ground

And all the babies died.

What if I told you

It was me?

I took the jumping mouse

From the jaws, the paws

Of the cat

And held it

Warm in my palms

Until, hours later,

It died.

What if I told you

All day yesterday

I didn’t care

And the day before

I can’t remember

Where I was or

How I felt?

I wanted to be somewhere

Else, anywhere

And I was.

I was in the nest,

On the ground,

Dying,

In my own palms.

by Kathleen MacGregor

It’s August.

September’s on the way.

This is the time

when she weighs

herself down

with lists, classes, meetings

chores have-tos and

should-dos.

A kind of lust

Has come in.

The sea wants

to carry her away

to a foreign country.

With or

without her family.

With or

without saying

Good-bye.

With or

without coming back.

No thought of returning now-

only flight.

A kind of lust,

so hard to resist.

But resisted, oppressed.

Desire.

She doesn’t know why

it has to be this way.

Or at least why

it has been this way.

Part of her is already gone.

There is a vacancy in her

face and

in her body.

She is

turning, like the leaves,

toward the sinking sun.

The draw to follow him

down.

Down to the

south.

Italy, France, Spain

Or Africa.

There.

Where the sun

never stops kissing his Earth

kisses her to death.

Desire.

Desire to walk

down crumbling stone streets

wearing high heals

which click and echo off the

ancient, mumbling walls

lined with old women in black and

children who stay up late.

Desire to hold orange blossoms

in her hand

And feel her own dress

swing and brush her legs.

To hear the voices of the men

smoking on their apartment

balconies.

The music

drifting from somewhere

just ahead.

The smells

pressing in.

Heavy, thick lust.

To feel the men wanting her.

Desire for all of them.

To abandon all notions

of right and wrong or

consequence.

The half-asleep mistiness of all of it.

A far-away question

floats by,

She doesn’t

know

How this

will

turn

out.