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 winter—we 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.