Marilyn, What wonderful lines 'I rake grey-eyed
grief...montage.  I wonder if you could use 'brown'
(or similar) instead of 'saute' in the first stanza
and perhaps shorten the whole poem to concentrate its
impact. cheers and thanks, cara

--- Marilyn Injeyan <[log in to unmask]> wrote: >
                Vessel
>                                  for Ming Li
>
>
>         An autumn day, the kind you
>         would have liked - tap and stir
>         of a wooden spatula as onions sauté.
>         Parsley Patch and paprika.
>         Pita bread baking.  Chicken crackles
>         in the oven.  You wait on the cool
>         tile, know some will be for you.
>
>         Spirals rise from saffron, kindled by
> sun-rest.
>         I rake grey-eyed grief into a mound
>         and study the muted montage:
>
>         You at six weeks old in a cardboard box
>         beside me.  I stroke your buff-colored
>             fuzz fitting in my hollowed palms.
>         Our magical bond begins.
>
>         You wait all day long, barricaded
>         in the kitchen to hear the front door open,
>         to yelp and wiggle into my arms.
>         Me on the freeway, racing home.
>
>         You in the car, head stuck out the window,
>         nose up to catch the wind and harvests
>         on trips to and from the high desert.
>
>         You wade, nip wavelets and prance
>         along the lake's shore.  Fur, now
>         rust-colored, sprinkled with sand.
>
>         You allow Bagheera, the cat,
>         to share your dinner, flank your walks
>         and flop against you to snooze.
>
>         You with a perky red hat, grinning toward
>         the camera, posed with Tasha and Santa.
>
>         You after grooming, with a bow atop
>             your mane, relieved to be back.
>
>         You with a whitened muzzle and arthritic
>         steps along a memorized pathway.
>
>         As night drops its shades, something
>         in me breaks.  Stars spin on black.
>         I ignite a candle, float in a maroon
>         requiem and feel your ruffled coat.
>                                Sleep, my beloved.
>
>         I dream you drift in a small boat.
>         Water laps gently to the lull
>         of a bamboo flute.  Wrapped in light
>         and petals, you reach the other side
>         and hop out.  No more half-crippled
>         body with aching hips and limbs.
>         Eyes are clear, no longer blind,
>         ears no longer deaf.  Your purple
>         chow tongue pants happily, like when
>         you knew the door would open
>         soon and I'd arrive.
>
>             Again, you patiently wait.
>
>
>                     Marilyn Injeyan
>                     November 9, 2001
>
>
>

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