The Lady on the Wall
What
is the purpose of one single cloud?
Not
ashes.
Not
stone.
Not
mostly white.
One
cloud—angry or quiet
can
not contain
this
red woman dancing.
My
arms are thrown
exploding
in the sky
underfoot
and dancing
red
deeper in my breast,
my
hair,
the
curves of my legs.
Eyes
can not see
one cloud
when
my head swings
rhythm moving forward
a
single wave does not know
whether
to come or go.
Tracy Bednarick
My
knees and calves know the aged worry
of thousands.
Where
windows should be tilted down
I
offer no repose, no harbor.
Jesus
looked down from the cross forgiving even those
who
betrayed and tortured
Yet I
must stare—stone spheres in locked orbs
off in
the distance
a
weathering Himalayan mountain,
a
garden,
the
bedroom of a Geisha.
When
praying hands rubbed my stone smooth
ropes
draped over my arms—a weight I must hold
but if
I could drop these ropes where would my hands go?
Would
they hold a head?
Surround
the tears of a parent who has lost a child?
Sneak
coins into the pocket of a beggar?
What
wishes would I fill?
Could
I see the worries of all these hands?
But
hands do not make miracles,
eyes
dwell only in light.
Ripples
of heart move through me with every fingertip’s caress
My
heart is not stone.
Break
this statue-
crack
my insides.
Every
touch has softened.
My
essence has held the head,
soothed
the sting of tears
brought
fortune for work.
Eyes
do not need to see when the body knows.
I
offer particles like slivers of mica.
Capture
these pieces. They are your wine, my
blood, my body.
God
did not craft me,
you
did
and my
eyes will be your heart.
