two poems by Leonore Hildebrandt

The Protagonist

She has sex on the morning she dies.

Or, she is walking a beach of brittle stars.

Some people say that the characters

follow like days of a season

that is not true. They begin

by building themselves over and over.

Do you know how a pearl comes

to mind. How it ripens within you?

Sometimes the protagonist suffers,

has large reservoirs, bears neglect,

and yet a single blow may end it

unless she lingers on warm rocks.

The protagonist wants to please.

Sometimes, turning to night,

she leaves nothing of herself

but the scent of fir pitch. In the book

I'm about to write, she excels

at whistling songs I hardly remember.

Illusion in Blue

Lately, our tenses are neither

present nor past, but impossibly

absent as we try to take hold.

Contrary to what is written, you say,

the birds in the sky always

hustle for sustenance.

The fish in the sea

worry themselves dull

over tomorrow's catch.

The rush is contagious

I had to omit the pauses between

breathing in and breathing out.

It is winterwe don't sleep  

we roam about the dark

in search of kernels.  

Today as the snow is receding

brown grasses are laid out

to dry in the sun:

the thin carpet of life

a single line. I close my eyes

blue water, blue sky

and launch myself deep

in the light-world.

You come too.

 Jackie Rhoadesshapeimage_7_link_0