My Hand Upon Your Name

For Dear Life

19 For dear LIFe The Dreaming Back for my mothers, for me to catch the spring spirit of Dublin andVincennes in their bones, prayers looking like white mantises around my fire, washed transparent bodies with the happiness of butterfish. My own hand, a small hand holds onto a hot cup of tea, the last finger rising in the air, curve of a garden hook, or sea chimney rising out of the North Atlantic. Gentle women, in quatrefoil or clover, I see that I am no longer alone coming to these black reeds and white sheets, my hand my hand pen and paper behind metal blinds, inside your hand, partial light bearing down on the time being, and one blue rocker suddenly moving with wind seen nowhere else. I would be afraid of these mirror-flashings, these messages if it wasn’t for the glee, the secret letting go for your side singing in the quartiers, ringing round 20 the faery strands, the turtle eggs, for the way of things we can remember. ...