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_________________________________________________________________ Scroll Through Poetry
A dancer walks down MIssion Street
with a cigarette in one hand and
a Latte from LaBoheme in the other.
She is a rainbow muffler, wrapped around thorax.
She is warming calves, pumping smoke,
dragging deep into the celery snap of
another San Francisco morning, and
itching to pull on the day's first leotard.
A cable car down Polk Street, bus across town,
quick stop at the cafe, and half a mile hoofing it
into the warehouse district. This is Mariposa,
the heart of dance. Industrial doors open
to cement hallways, open to smells of
kiln and oils, open to studios spaces
softened with sprung wood floors.
Always the care of the floor comes first,
the long push of the cotton broom across
each caramel board. As breath drops to
lower chakras, dissolves all dissonance,
and light streams in through southern
exposure. Today the spirit of Eric Hawkins
wields the broom. So quiet, you can hear
your breath. And a five, six, seven
and eight. and......
I kept listening to George Harrison
chanting in sanskrit, until a wanderlust
for Gujurat pounced on me
like a loose litter of lion cubs.
I was smitten and stricken,
enamored and terrified. I was
walking through intentions
of passport acquisition
and frequent flyers rejoice.
I was once a tiny monk
maybe eight or nine lives old.
I was wrapped in mango robes,
freshly spun from my mother's loom.
I was walking contemplation, eyes
in the back of my head looking in,
unless and until, looking through.
I was once a black haired woman,
bent at the well for water. Mustard flowers
surrounded her head, held the threads
of her shawl, mended together, the colors
illuminated her charity.
I was once the vessel she held,
the one that gathered the water.
Asato Maa Sadgamaya | Om shantih |
shantih | shantih || She was refreshment
at the banks of the Ganges. I was that
old gathering can.