Black Hope
That I might fashion a prayer
out of this moment, peering out the
kitchen window onto the glitter of sidewalk,
tarmac, cars gliding by on hot rubber,
the pecan tree with its black fists of nuts,
bone-meal of winter, dying, dying,
the russet drifts of leaves around the bean tree,
the sacred juniper, with its berries
glazed as if by ice, and the story of the
pregnant women who ate them with
unceasing hunger as if she knew it was
her last chance at taste. In the wind,
mid-morning, the branches of the trees outside
shake themselves as if eager to be rid
of even their last ornamentation, to greet
the air bald and stripped down to
nerve and bone. Let it be this that I
take: What winter gave me. The courage
of my nakedness, that I was alone
and I sang this song, and the song
was carried and set down. On my eyes
two dried leaves, on my tongue a stone.
– sheila black