xxi. Axe-Twined Log (Francisco)

My tent in our new Kingdom grows
 to feel like my first studio, the one
immolated by a lover’s rage, so much
 of me destroyed that it was only
the loss of the one-footed girl which
 tindered up my heart again.

I think of that studio as we settle
 in here more, as I watch the King
walk with Deirdre, see on his face
 the moving lights of passion, of love.
I start to unpack my rucksack for
 the first time in years, if at all.

My mysterious canvas, worn
 by years & weather & travel. Your face
softer, center of the tree’s trunk,
 & the seething images around you.
I talk to you, quietly when alone,
 tell you secret things, a lonely heart’s things.

As I set out the treasures I’ve collected
 on our travels, packed away for so long,
I describe to you why each choice.
 You listen. Your seething companions listen.
This I know.

This glass vase, small thin neck, translucent
 green. “For when I missed the Sea by
our years in the White Woods.” Set it on
 a small table, very small, next my bed
of blankets & pillows. Lift it up to study.
 Laugh. “Also for when I missed the trees
by our years on the Sea.”

A round copper metal pot with a cap & a long
 spout. Burnished nigh black. “My mother
loved little cups of liquid chocolate bubbling
 hot. Hers not a peddler’s trifle like this one.”
I try to remember, precisely, my tent in
 this strange land, years & miles & more.
Her accent spiraling down upon me.
 “A minute more, Franny. Save your tongue.”

This onyx figure, figures, twisted lovers
 seeming fused at hands, hips, thighs,
two women or one with her man, four
 breasts or two & something else; falling
asleep at study upon this in my hands,
 its uncertain narrative flinging itself
further in my dreams—

“She lives in my first studio, my lover,
 my servant, my slave, my something.
The only gift my father gave me with
 a smile, assembled, customized by
her precise hands. He told me a man
 has to learn this way, without consequence,
without punishment for being green.
 She contained parts from his own,
as his father had done too with his.
 “When you’re ready for the deeper
mysteries, dis-assemble her, to her case,
 & keep her tucked away for another.”

“She molded to my desires yet I taught
 her to be mercurial, elusive,
grow older, younger, more pliant, more violent,
 with all the whim she possessed.
I took her apart many times, replaced
 circuits & drives, testing her possibilities.

“I taught her to paint. I taught her
 a kind of dreaming mixed of mathematics
& fucking. I built her a curtained
 perch in that studio for watching
me fuck other women. Two or three
 of them. Watching me paint while
they fucked each other.” I stop.

I resume. “I showed her my painting
 of the White Birch, my first, my efforts
to restore it, never finished.” Saying
 what next to you, living in this imitation
of that picture, & yet real, & yet my
 friend, companion, something, stall.
Say.

“She pointed out the cuts in the picture
 were intentional. Were part of the painting,
not attacks upon it. That night, I fucked
 her in a different way. I gave all of
myself, stripped myself of young, clumsy
 love & melted through her, bubbling
chocolate through her. The door opened,
 a familiar, half-liked scent. I crawled
from the incineration.”

The rest of my rucksack still packed in
 my cabin below. Even the slouched pink
stone, dark, inert since I left the city,
 found my friend, found my brothers.

I set you up on the deck of our ship,
 a far corner I’d always used for painting,
though I’d not yet set you up here. My brushes,
 my palette of paints. Two days out
to Sea. Nearing the Island. I’ve never
 thought to do this but we’re going
there too fast. This feels like incineration.

Close my eyes, listening to the choppy
 hmmming of the Wide Wide Sea.
Sniff once, twice, fill my lungs full of
 the tanged air, remove my cloak,
take off this strange worn hat I’ve long
 kept, painted in.

Begin to paint, do not open my eyes,
 I begin to paint, I am walking,
alone, a pathless Woods, no lovers,
 no Brothers, following nobody, followed
by nobody. Brush swiping canvas
 like I’ve an additional arm & hand,
like I am two, one painting, one now running.

Run & run & run, then begin to slow,
 begin to approach, slower now, &
approaching, coming upon myself,
 & what I am rendering, now just
one of me again, painting furiously,
 breathless, hurting, I am watching
it happen again & again, & painting
 it, how sharp it is, how it slices
air itself upon its downward fall
 to the log, I follow it through,
through its slice, renting fibres
 like they too simply cool air, & the blood,

the blood hesitates, a long moment
 before pouring out, spreading on
the ground, I cry, moan, my eyes
 still shut, paint & paint, relive
this again & again until I feel
 hands, many hands grasp me,
my shoulders, my waist, pull
 me from my caging task, smack
my face to unmask me, cry my
 name again & again. Franny?
Franny? Franny?

“Francisco! Wake up! We need you!”

* * * * * *

xxii. Buzzing (Roddy)

My White Woods, those I so dearly know,
 linger with me these many years later,
many miles, long again walking in
 the world of men, my fine brothers.

Sometimes more than linger, sometimes
 much more. I iterated back there, back then,
& sometimes I trip back, now reaches back &
 folds together, & again I am where
I left, how it is because I never left.
 I can’t make it happen but happen it does.

Fyodor the grocer & I sit together many
 times since I left there in that caustic rain.
Still his balding head, thick thick moustache,
 heavy dark blue apron over his black tie &
clean white shirt. Black trousers, leather shoes.
 Kind & patient smile each time I too long
study his unaging visage. Is he just a
 dream figment now? What was he then?

What then was Iris? The Creatures?
 My red-whiskered friend?

I call for a rest, when the trip comes on me,
 when I can. Find somewhere, a tree,
a brick wall, whatever, to slump against,
 appear to nap. Relax back there, then, now.

But I can’t always. One time we were in
 battle choicelessly, on a moonless
hillside, our peaceful camp beset by
 knights of the road, wanting blood, plunder,
fun. We scattered to find a best place
 to defense the dark hours. Odom called.
A cave, but logs gutted its entrance.

Several of us held off more than our
 number, had to fight to retreat.

“Roddy.”
These weren’t men of honor in fighting.
The King had long told us, “wound than
 kill, but survive, & survive your brothers.”
So I used sword & knife, & my big torso,
 took on two myself.

“Roddy.”
Swinging blindly now because what I saw
 was partly foes, & partly Fyodor, our
armchairs, leather bucket of water.

I swung, I wounded, I staggered,
 finally I plunged, this one, that one.
They fell, perhaps would survive if tended.
 I let go. Arrived.

A cool summer evening. My White Bunny
 friend & two small Giraffes in my lap,
napping peacefully. Fyodor & I are both iterated now,
 but rarely talk of our other lives.

Those months in the Kingdom, though, pushed
 all of my old friends away from me. Travelled
with me well, settled poorly. I slept heavy
 & dreamless & did not emerge rested.

I’d left them to help save the world.
 This place we’d helped liberate, build up
new, wasn’t why I’d come away so far.

My tent was spare, where I slept my
 heavy poor sleeps & little more. My compass,
my knapsack, my bed roll. Ready to leave
 here at a word. Eager for this word.

When did the nocturnal buzzing through the tent
 wall start? Nothing on the other side
but bare ground. Patched the aging,
 thinning fabric but there was nothing out there.

Buzzing is how I thought of it. Not like
 the hmmming I’d known & loved with my
Creature friends, then or in moments
 when I would trip back. It was quiet
& furious. Would whelm me but for that
 tent wall. Would find a way. Searched nightly.
I wondered if my heavy dreamless sleep formed another barrier.
 I wondered if my old friends protected me still.

So relief when we went. The others
 were unsure, wondering, hesitant.
I wasn’t. Loaded the boat with vigor,
 hoping to leave the buzzing behind.
Maybe my dear old friends would near again.

No excitement this time in leaving,
 no matter our goal closer than ever.
Because? We pushed off to the Wide
 Wide Sea again, quiet, foolishly busy.

Too early retired to my cabin, sleepless,
 & there was the buzzing again. I held
to my bunk, decided to listen, to study.
 It was . . . different. Its malevolence gone.
I didn’t know what even as hours passed,
 even as I fell back to then, there, now.

Fyodor, our two armchairs, a beautiful
 night. Shiny-eyed fox & unicorn & snow leopard
& owl in my lap, napping friendly, safe.

A third figure, sitting on the porch’s
 edge. The red-whiskered man! Long
red straw hat, feathery red whiskers,
 mashed nose. Long overcoat, tall
old boots. A leather cup of the good water
 in his hand too.

So dear. But the buzzing.
“What is it, my friends?”
“What’s lost. Your regrets,” says Fyodor.
“Your fears,” adds Leonardo. Too me years
 to learn this name. I still forget.
“How do I quiet it? What does it mean?”
 Would take the first answer is not the second.

Both silent a long while. Then speak
 braided.

“It’s the past pouring through your heart,
 lost, angry, homeless. Now scared.”
“What do I do?”
“You seal up your heart, & look ahead
 to the Island solely. You look to your
brothers & their doubts, to what you can
 offer then. You fumigate your heart’s
chambers against those lost years.”

“Cannot they come again?”
“Nothing comes again if you fail.”

They begin to hmmm to me, a deep
 beautiful music, a goodbye, love,
faith, remembrance, goodbye for now.
 Sleep, resting & dreamless.

So I give me to my brothers, leaping
 to ride dolphins with Odom, drinking
with Dreamwalker, working by day,
 singing & eating by night. Sealed heart,
loving heart, unremembering heart.

Down on my knees, a prayer to
 this coming Island more like a begging:

Please accept me & my brothers.
Please let us come with our task.
Please let us roam you safely.
Please let us find the Tangled Gate.
Please let us find the Beast.
Please let us somehow save the world.

Fall prone to the floor. Long silence.
Then I feel Creatures gather around
 me, like old, sniffing, friendly,
but not me back there. Them come here.

A sound from them. Buzzing? I panic,
 thrash. More. I calm. Breathe, relax.

There is no buzz. It was always hmmming.
My heart is clean but not empty.
My heart is full of all of you.

I will help my brothers save this world.
I will return to all of you.
You wait with a part of me still.
The rest will come to you again.

Then, Dreamwalker’s shout. “Land! It’s land!”

* * * * * *

xxii. Eclipse (Odom)

“Let’s steal away in the noonday sun
It’s time for a summertime dream.”
—Gordon Lightfoot, 1976.

In dreams you never leave me,
 none of you. I return from the White Woods,
having decided. I will not leave you,
 & you’re waiting for me. My father,
the dear look in your eyes I wished I was.
 Cordel’a, blue eyes & braids, loving me
like I was two brothers for one.

Iris. The smile you gave me that morning
 in that half-built worship house. Like
I was what a good world had let you to.

The men I fished with. The women & girls
 who made the meals, mended the nets.
Our encampment, meager yet filled
 with our hearts & limbs & lives, &
near to the Creatures in those wondrous
 White Woods. Home.

I am the youngest of our King’s brothers.
 Always a bit in Roddy’s shadow, as he
had travelled with me first, & taught me
 so much, & continued to with the years.

They all accept me, love me. I become
 something of the fighter I need to be.
Never a big man, I have to learn when to
 best retreat in a battle, how to make
sure my weapon hits true first when
 a bigger opponent will not let me a second try.

But something else emerges as my skill.
 The others notice I can deduce a
landscape at far view for its cover,
 its terrain beyond the horizon, its feel
for occupation, men or otherwise.

I learn this from my Brothers.
The way Dreamwalker calculates the hidden by waking or dreaming.
How Asoyadonna can sense a place’s ease or disquiet.
Watching Francisco instinctively catalogue sky, water, tree.
The King’s obsessive push past all what cannot tell us.
Roddy’s gentle woodsman skills, the way
 valley, Woods, mountain take him in.

When uncertain next, when we six
 huddle together & no sure move,
a place evolves for me. I understand uncertainty.
 I’ll look about, sniff like Creatures, & again,
prompt something in the rest. Decide our direction
 at a forked path. Push up further into hills or desist.
Rest tonight or walk by full moon.

I am always look for you.
I do not know how to do this.
Our quest is married, binded with my own.

The years grow me up, from the moodiness
 of youth to the melancholy of young manhood.
I rarely take out my coin purse with
 its reminders of my losses & failures.

My dearest little friend has left me though,
 on darkest nights, I will sometimes hear
her merry cackle in my dreams, wake to it
 a few more precious moments still.

For a long while I’m able to live among
 my sadnesses. Embrace these handsome
Brothers. Believe all will be told, &
 recovered, & saved, eventually.

The girls, then the women in the places
 we travel sometimes go for me. My youthful face,
my sad eyes. Many sweet couplings,
 somewhat tearful partings. The others
the girls come to ride happy a night.
 Me, they stick on. Me, traps them.

I discover that within love, within want,
 within shadows of shadows, there may be
cruelty. Wished for, made upon.
 A sweet ass smacked rawly red, then
fucked with the pain still fires wild.
 Hands binded, mouths gagged. Will
to possess, completely be possessed.
 Will to eclipse the mind of wonder & woe.

Visions of burning Woods, poisoned cities,
 shown me long ago by the Beast.
Make it hurt. More. Oh don’t stop. Yes. Don’t stop.

I mature well, become lean. Rarely
 smile as none of my Brothers believe
smiles are often in my heart. Save them.

The rest are enthralled by the King’s
 rapturous love for Deirdre. His lifting heart
lifts theirs for awhile. We pause our travels
 to build up the King’s old homeland. We work,
& rest awhile.

I avoid them together. Her. Her turquoise
 eyes, so like yours, Iris. Never seen in a girl
since yours, Iris. Is she from where you
 were from? How can this mean anything?
Where are you now? Do you remember me?

They don’t know, will never know, that
 you came to my tent, one night
near our departure. You came to my
 tent & you buttoned down its door,
& you undressed quietly, & you lay
 down with me. You undressed me too.

“You are my Queen. My King’s beloved,” I croak.
“Not tonight, Odom.”

Your face, in the moonlight upon it
 from the open ceiling flap, is so beautiful.
Not love for me in it. Not what
 you bear my King. Yet something intense,
just for me right now. They co-exist in you.

“What is this, Deirdre?” I speak plainly.
“You see her eyes in mine.”
I nod. We face each other, nude.

“I’m here to tell you she’s to be found.”
“Yet here these many years & miles.”
You move into my grasp, your turquoise eyes,
 say my name, how not said in so long, paralyzing me.
Your touch, your movements like hers, that morning
 in the half-built worship house.

Not possible, yet so, your voice sweetens, lilts,
 like hers.

“You will come to all those places
 you remember from watching the images
  on your coin purse as a boy.”

Pause. Listen, breathless.

“The Great Tree. The Castle. The Island. Tangled Gate.”

Another pause.

“You will find all of them.” Pause. “Another day
 you will find me, Odom.”

I blink in the moonlight. Deirdre. Iris. Deidre.

She smiles almost cruelly. “Do you long
 to smack my ass hard too, Odom?
Bind me? Fuck me? Fuck me hard?”

Blink as you roll on top of me, your
 reddish blonde hair on my chest.

Deirdre. Blink. Iris. Blink. Iris.

Blink. Iris.

Your hands I bind over your head.
Your eyes I blindfold. Your mouth I gag.
Your sweet ass I redden for fucking.
Your bare pussy I taste till it noises,
 then fuck. And again. Eclipse.

Then you bind me. Blindfold, gag me.
Hurt me with a stick. Hurt me as I’ve
 not been hurt. Eclipse.

My blinded world white with pain.
Hurt, high & low, squeezed, bitten, smacked.

Then something. Something.

The day all of you left. While I was up
 in the White Woods. Someone learned
what our captors intended that day,
 for when we were to gather to evening meal.
A massacre. No sense in it? A half-built
 town for us?

It was to cow the White Woods, all
 its magick beings. Cow them with
their King’s will to destroy everything unkneeling.

You ran. You fled. As calmly as possible,
 to keep everyone together. My father &
the King leading you all away, far away
 from the White Woods. To where?

Far down, miles down the shore of
 the Wide Wide Sea. Hurrying but
keeping together. There. There you
 all are now, digging up from deep
in the sand, boats, enough for
 everyone, if barely, & not perpetually
on the Wide Wide Sea.

This vision begins to soften as I feel
 numb to the bites & the blows. You’re all
rowing away from them, from me.
 I look for you among the fragments.

My father laying a blanket on an old woman.
 Cordel’a handing round soup.
The girl with reddish blonde hair & turquoise eyes,
 tuned to my very beat & breath? I look
& look. I don’t know.

You trusted I would understand.
You trusted I would not forget.
You trusted I would find you.

You undo my binds. You unfold my eyes.
You are Deirdre again. You lie in my arms
 & touch the lashes on my chest.
We say nothing more. I doze breathing
 that long ago Sea scent in your hair.

My dreams are peaceful. My old King’s bloo
 eyes upon me, smiling. My blue-green little purse,
its beautiful contents, its shifting images of
 Great Tree, Island, Castle, Gate.

Wytner, our three pairs of hands tightly grasping each other.

My loves.

Cordel’a, my wise protector. Iris, my wondering woeful heart.

Now back on the ship, now bound for
 the Island. Where I will not leave until I know,
Now these two quests are one, as ever they were.
 To save this world is to save my own,
my wish one star in the great lit canvas.
 of the sky. No more eclipse.

Yet the stripes on my arms, my back, my heart,
 these form the map to follow once we make land,
when we arrive the Island, when my Brothers
 are uncertain, & turn to me to sniff, & know.

* * * * * *

xxiv. Let the Rest Go (The King)

“So this is purgatory.
The memory set in mold.
Reality a little way past reach.”
—Rod McKuen, “The Stanyon Cafe,” 1984.

“Love it all, my King. Let the rest go.”
These her last words, my beloved Deirdre,
 as our last moment faded on my ship.
None of Asoyadonna’s dream had left.
 Wouldn’t matter. You’re gone.

And soon my Brothers too. Now some sleeping
 with drink-sodden smiles on them, others
pushing the carouse on deck awhile longer.

I looked upon each of your faces in
 a new & old way tonight. Remembering
what we were along our way here.
 Wishing it wasn’t our last adventure.

“Love it all, my King. Let the rest go.”
 Your turquoise eyes staining me anew.
Your message to me that one will come
 to me that is why I’ve come. Why all this.
And another I may grow old by?

This voyage become a maelstrom in my chamber.
You my second night’s visitor.
Expected, unlike the first night’s.

I knew they were unsure, sober,
 frail in feeling at this setting off
for where we’d always been bound.

Of them, only Roddy showed much esprit
 when I arrived to the boat’s loading.
His slumped form of recent times, dark
 sleepless eyes, replaced by a man
urging all with a laugh & a swagger.

But quiet, the rest of them, polite, distant,
 not Brothers, shared skin, shared blood,
more because together, always together.
 One after the next retiring early, hands
by their sides, eyes elsewhere.

I took to my chamber too, & lay abed long
 hours. Wishing I had some mushroom tea
to bring me to my wonderful friend
 in the sky. Could wishing make it so?
Eyes closed, a low hmmm burbling from
 my lips, almost despairingly.

Somehow, a miracle? Sharp ears? I felt
 myself rising like old through that
narrow aperture in my ceiling, & up,
 & up, & up! I held out my arms smiling,
just hoping I’d careen myself upon
 that shiny-scaled great green head,
land, grab on! Hold tightly!

It was so, but it was other. We flew
 purposely, no play, little joy in it.
Eventually my night eyes made out
 the Island ahead, what my own ship
was days away from.

My friend swooped us over its Wooded
 scape for a few lingering moments,
reluctant to arrive where bound.
 Who could thrall this Dream Dragon
vision so? Toward whom?

We soared straight then to our
 obscure destination, lower & lower to it,
& of a sudden it was what the long ago
 visions had shown me. A massive,
ancient, entrance. The Tangled Gate.
 Swooped through it, great enough to
clear my friend’s beautiful endless wings.

Does he grow smaller? Do I with him?
 We swoop down paths marked by tall
walls of vines & stones, left, right,
 right, left, a seeming endless & dizzying
sequence. Straight unto where I’ve
 always been coming. Cave of the Beast.

My dear friend slides me with a kind
 skid & gentle flip to the entrance, land
upright & walking. Night’s pitch from
 the outside but, within, not.

A soft glow. A sense of someone
 unseen. A waiting. I speak.

“Why am I brought here by my friend
 like this?”
Silence. A voice, more a growl in my mind,
 speaks.

“You’ve come here for my help.”
“Yes.”
“To save the world from men?”
“Yes”
“And what would you give for this?”
“What do I have left to give?”
Silence.
“They’ll get you here. They’ll roam this
 Island with you until you eventually
come here.”
“Yes. They will.”
“And that will be all.”
“All?”
“Yes.”
“All?”
“Love them all, King. Let the rest go.”
“And then?”
“And then go.”
“Go?”
“Yes.”
Silence.
“This will save the world?”
Silence. This Cave is now empty, its soft
 light fading. I make to leave & find
my friend, feel Creaturely warmth
 at least for a short while more, but
the dream ends with a sudden snap.

The second day breaks into beauty
 as I watch it moment by moment.
I hear shouts & calls on the deck,
 delight in their tones. Open water.
Salve to the bit & snag of land.

I watch everything this day. Delight
 at Roddy & Odom riding dolphins, &
then failing too. Odom’s smile how
 it’s rarely been in months. Calling
bright-eyed to me on deck as never
 so long.

I spy on Francisco as he stalks
 around his painting, throwing off
his artist’s cap & cloak. Seeming to faint
 by his own intensity. Looks up at me
like my eyes alone upon his breaks
 his heart, twice over.

But by evening he & the rest are in
 great moods, we six eating together
under the scirocco of stars, drinking
 each his fill & more. I tell the
old riddle I know there is no answer
 to, but two questions. Why desire?
Why anything at all?

When Asoyadonna follows me to my cabin,
 presents me with the gift she’d brought
for me, I almost tell her no,
 I’ve dreamed the future already,
it ends badly.

But to see you one more time again,
 my Deidre, I weaken, acquiesce.
You lay with me in my bed, on you
 never saw. Atwist in my grasp, like old,
fingers playing my graying beard like
 your own secret, amusing instrument.

I wonder if one can ask one vision
 about another, the politics & etiquette
of the aether. But you know. Your message
 tells me the rest. She will come.
She will matter. She is all.

“You were all,” I say aloud.
I feel her smiling, need not see her eyes.
“We saved each other.”
She repeats the Beast’s rending
 instructions, & is melted back into
me by dawn. My dearest stain.

“Land! It’s land!” I hear
 Dreamwalker’s voice, a joy practically
savage in it.

Nothing left to do but give them all
 this hour, this happy day.
Love them all. Save the world.

* * * * * *

xxv. Remember Some Things

And again. Some way among
 will, whim, & wish there is remembrance.
Sometimes clearing the way on
 is first clearing the way back.
Remember old. Thus, remember new.

The water is cold, cold, salt swilling
 through my lips. I am nearly nude,
swimming hard for that rocky shore,
 long, slow strokes, working the shifting
currents with my muscles, let, let,
 there is long memory in my body for this
Wide Wide Sea, its dark depths, &
 so I just have to let myself navigate
its old home.

Remember some things. Again you, Architect,
 neared me in my dreams, & those places
in my sleep beyond dreams. Walking
 closer than before, a heat between
us I know I did not make alone in my
 bed. Your soft voice licking near my ear.

“The Tangled Gate. Find me through
 the Tangle Gate. Will you choose
to return? Will you?”

I woke in my small warm bed
 in the Pensionne & it’s like I
never stopped moving from then
 to now, from that morning,
packed what little I treasured
 in my Blue Suitcase, traveling
the far distance on the Mainland
 to the shore of the Wide Wide Sea.

A lone girl wandering the empty shore,
 looking for a ride, I could only
feel myself amazed that I came
 upon a handsome young man
rigging up his boat for sailing.

He is dark-eyed, friendly, willing
 to help me out. Because he is shy
& young, & my smile is pretty & practiced?
 He fishes these waters, knows
its fish & Sea Creatures better than
 girls. We sail for some days. I let him
hold my hand. It seems enough.

Then I am going. He’s shocked, & sad.
 I swathe him in a smile, & am
over into the water, & swimming hard
 to that rocky shore. Takes me
slowly, reluctantly.

I choose to return, Architect.
To you, to this Island.
To the Castle, my old Dancing Grounds.
To the Tangled Gate.

The shore is rocky, I crawl half-
 drowned ashore. Push, pull, push.
But now an argument about where my body
 belongs. Island or Sea?

And again, my will, my whim,
 I choose to return to the Island.
Castle. Dancing Grounds. Tangled Gate. You.
 Remembering some things, some things
ticking harder, little to do with time.

* * * * * *

xxvi. Sniff

Working my way along these big rocks,
 I remember the Queen, my father
the King’s jealous, helpless wife. She dwelled
 among us like a living peace treaty,
a war prevented in her sad young eyes.
 Her deepest failure was loving my
father honestly, helplessly. Brough her
 witchly cult, three cragged old women,
like obscure terms in that treaty that none
 but her cared about.

When small, thinking her smile towards me
 sometimes kind, curious, I lingered
near her chamber, listen to them discuss
 herbs for fidelity. Trailed them on
full moon nights into deep clearings in
 the One Woods, watchd the old crones
undress & present her in supplication
 to . . . something. Their screeching songs,
wild-limbed dances. How silent
 the One Woods those nights! A patch
of bad surrounded them, depthless
 hunger, maw of power collected by fear.

The King my father worried of her not.
 Bade her cult far removed from him
at all times. His obsessed play for what
 long lost from him. An old love,
an only love. The Queen spake her name
 only once in all the times I spied.
Deirdre. The crones witnessed by her witchly
 fingerings his subterranean negotiations
to retrieve her from somewhere far.
 They told of her of a Beast he sparred.

Urged her truck with this Beast too.
 “I have nothing, my sisters.”
Eldest spoke, like a cackle blooded of merry.
 “You have the one thing all Beasts
& men wish. All they want of women.
 What they cannot unmix from themselves.”

She listened. Foolish, hopefully foolish,
 she listened. I followed her to
this rocky shore, watched her present
 her still young body, handsome face,
to a . . . large something. Not a man,
 but not not one. So large they used
a wooden contrivance to couple.
 Still she roared in body’s pain
& heart’s anguish.

Twas said she was seeded, & shut
 away in her chambers to wait.
I believed. I didn’t believe. Summoned
 to her chamber, I came with the
lessing interest of one with my own
 body’s new burblings, heart’s novel
obsessions. Like my father, hardened
 & uncaring. Like him, cruel.

Raised up in her bed, seeing me along
 as never before. She touched my hair,
my new breasts, liked & called me
 beloved daughter. Kindness, curiosity
now calcified into vague recall of such feelings.

“Don’t lead with your heart, child,
 it will betray you,” she growled me low.
My body talked like it knew what no man
 or woman has solved. “How did you
cause this? What was your wrong?”

She smiled me, handsome & hard as
 a man now. “When they near you,
child, hooked by your luring blood,
 do what I didn’t.”

Silence. I’d slid to the very edge
 of her bed now, disliking her touch.
Naming & counting constellations
 in my mind, from the many long
night watches with my father the King.

Silence. Counting. “Sniff.”
“Sniff?”
Silence again. Breathing more complex
 than it ought. I should have felt
something, at least pity or sorrow.

Her advice lingered, though, a wisdom curled
 in it, layers deep, her one gift
to me. Me too young & foolish
 to know that sooner or later we all
don the sex box, asses high for
 the smacking & cracking, body’s pain,
heart’s anguish, drag them home,
 alone, before first light.

* * * * * *

xxvii. Book of Patterns

Those years in your office, Architect, high in your Tower,
 your dank dry dusty Tower office,
the hours I’d spend there nearly every
 day, was it teaching, all those words,
all that talking, or somehow better when
 you were silent, when I simple studied
the Tangled Gate through the great telescope?

Talking. A voice like a beautiful, old, rusty
 pipe, in an abandoned place at dusk.
Words, yes, but meaning less so.
 Talking. My younger days’ teacher had
talked less & I’d learned more.

“The mind locally, & the mind at large,
 & collaboration. An immense, complex
flow through innumerable vessels, &
 there are distinctions.”

A pause. I’m too green to wonder as
 I do now, how your words would have
changed if I’d just rent my blouse &
 beared my breast to you. Bit you,
hard, fore & aft, with my hungry young mouth.

“The pairing is I & thou.
The working is three or more.
The flowing is a mass movement.
All flowing is all life, all matter.”

My younger days’ teacher would nuzzle
 me with touch, cause us hmmm together
for hours, hold strange pictures for me
 to study in his soft white-furred paws.
Knew I trebled in time but not why.
 Seemed to be showing me iterations of
myself, centuries apart, reaching for
 each other, trying, failing, reaching.

“These could be destructive collaborations,
 or creative, could be audience to
events, fleeing, sleep. What seems like
 clash & chaos is a kind of flow, a deep
improvisation of music & music.”

You showed me, just once, each of my
 interations, hand to hand to hand
across time, one & all, & something,
 something bright & beautiful,, & words,
my own, not yours, “turn on all the lights,
 you must turn on all the lights.”

The lights I knew earliest were the sky’s
 at night, up this long climb to the Castle
on its tall hill, its great lookouts to the
 Wide Wide Sea, & my father’s sleepless
patrols so many weaker hours of the
 night. Him alone, mine for a little while.

Always looking high, in love with the night’s
 shiny stones, I’d start when he’d speak.
“They’re all out there.” Sleepless too,
 thinking what I beheld like a spectral
canvas of the musical patterns of gulls
 in flight, I’d vaguely ask: “Who?”

But his mind on the Sea below, not
 the speckled roof of the world. “Who would
take all this from us. Our home.” I looked
 down below, saw nothing but empty
dark waves. Answered his strange fears
 with my only power, touch & kiss.

Embraced, sighing, he’d say: “There are
 other worlds, stranger strengths.”
Turn on all the lights.

Now come to what he built for me
 later. When I became one of his stranger
strengths. When he saw how I moved
 quick & light, like a bunny, like a butterfly,
& said I must dance.

We sat together so many nights,
 studying an old book of patterns
he kept like a treasure, as he kept
 nor treasured little else.
We’d study. I’d dance to imitate. He’d shake
 his head. I’d try again. The pairing
is I & thou. Turn on all the lights.

By dreams I’d dance with them.
By mornings I’d dance for him.

The grounds for the dance’d be raked
 every evening, the stones set in place.
Barest light, touch of water to my lips,
 my gown shed, all alone, all quiet.
I’d dance for his reck, I’d let them come, the patterns
 in the book, traced & tranced through
my dreams of them, let my body,
 move my feet, sing the pictures &
noise, move with morning into light.

The rocks would stray from my feet,
 the raked sands scatter the grounds
revealing my song & message. Blind &
 dumb to others watching, pretty
trinkets of the court, not my friends,
 flowers ever drawn to my father’s rays.

These grounds now long unraked,
 their purpose long passed from naked eyes.
My feet to soft & unpracticed to turn on
 any lights, pair, work, work, flow,
improvise music or movement.

I’ve returned here, Architect,
 to remember some things, find my
old music, the dangers I knew then
 because I loved & wanted many,
because they loved & wanted me.

* * * * * *

xxviii. Brother

We continued our talks, my dear Brother,
 long after that day we last all stood
together in this old Castle’s great entryway.
 Shiny then, polished high & low,
like a thing thought worth more than the rest
 of this Woods’d Island.

You’d let me brush your long blonde hair
 that morning, my small ivory brush
loving familiar with your head’s curves
 & contours. The sound of your slow,
enjoying breath. Your ever wish me
 talk of my Creatures friends long
after I’d last seen them. Your wish
 I’d reunion with whatever childly
magic had gifted them me.

Long after that last day, in the place
 beyond dreams, we’d find each other, &
you would again ask after the White Bunny,
 cackling little Imp, turtle not a turtle,
& the rest. Knew my stories with them
 as none other did. Nudge our dream
visits ever nearer that hole in my
 bedroom wall.

“They miss you, my sweet Sister. They love
 you like none other.”
“I miss you.”
Quiet. Brush, brush, brush.

“Would you come with me?”
“I wish. I can’t.”
“Like dreams & death have strict
 rules of engagement?”

He’d laugh. Loving me.

The shine here now are those gapes
 in the walls high up. Like the very
angry blows of a very great Beast.
 Breathe the air we all breathe!
See by the common light! Let it
 reveal your tangled, choking hearts!

That day you were off to the Mainlan,
 the Island’s sole participant in
the Great Games, you confident you’d
 confound them all & win many prizes
in tests of speed, strength, grace,
 wit, voice, sex, diplomacy. Your sweet,
soft, thorough confidence. The pretty
 trinkets gathered in the peering corners
as we all bid you well, them damp & weak
 at your indifference.

The King my father distracted by his
 own secrets, hand absently holding
the Queen’s, her a magic bone’s obscure
 vessel. The Architect, tall & dusty &
looking rustily pried from his Tower offices.
 My sorry self, your dearest one,
abandoned by you, hating you,
 terrified I wouldn’t see you again by daylight.

Your smile the same for all of us,
 for the damp trinkets, & in it
I saw you again as sickly & small, sleeping
 too many hours, hmmming many many
of them. Growing graceful in face,
 strong shoulders, swift thighs. Growing
 graceful, & slightly off. Occasional limp.

It came & went as you did many
 nights, as I knew your deeper
explorings into the Woods than
 anyone else, as you would not
let me come, & would tell me little,
 twinkling with your own secrets.

“You will know in your own time,
 sweet Sister.”
“I would know now if you just
 told me.”

The stone staircase to our rooms
 is rubbled but intact. Your room
is ruin, filled to its broken doorway.
 Mine, strangely, is empty, & clean.
I sit in the detritus where was
 my too-big bed. Where I brushed
your hair for the thousandth time
 that last morning.

“Will you tell them goodbye for me?”
I nod. Useless to argue.
“They still wait you.” I start but
 keep brushing.

“Even the last time we, I saw you
 then, that limp. What was it?”
He says nothing but I flash sudden in
 this place beyond dreams to a
half-lit cave, a face of many faces,
 a voice braided by all.

I lie out my bed roll, my ivory
 hairbrush, my totems, my knife.
On the ceiling above me remain a few
 of the golden stars we pinned there,
you & I, my brother, so long ago,
 one traced in green on its edges.

“Ours, sweet Sister. Wherefrom. Whereto.”
I watch our star again, my dear Brother,
 eyes open, want you in waking
again. I know nothing.

I sleep.

* * * * * *

xxix. The Gate

All memories until now with
 the tough old bite they still bear,
but my wander now turns to
 new purpose, to why come here again.
My Dancing Grounds are cold & silent
 of counsel or enigma as I leave them.

The Tangled Gate is impossibly large,
 like there had been & yet remains
only one King of this world, like it
 will share your attention with no other.
In my childly dreams I felt possessed
 of it, a thing blessed by its complete rule.

You, Architect, would not let me pass
 through it by waking, gave me to believe
I could not pass through it but for your nod.
 I believed there were reasons, believed
this nod would come when me ready,
 believed I apprenticed by dreams to
its unimagined, wild, waking wonders.

I breathe me once, twice, not not move to
 enter. Look up at your massive height,
the palpable hmmming music I hear
 now as I did then in dreams, deep sense
you are not crafted from metal but
 caused into being by bone, wood, rock.

Where you arch highest, that glowing
 apex, words to read & wonder. “For those
lost,” I read, again & again, as I did then,
 no entry into this riddle. For those lost.
Someone read those words to me
 the first time I saw them. So small.

In my chamber, through the hole in the wall
 in my dreams. Yes, it was strange.
Yes, I was small. Yes, it felt real like
 important & beautiful things in
this world are real. Yes, this belief wears
 & wearies my mind. Yes, it’s why I’ve returned.

Breathe once, twice, not move to enter.
 Again, though waking, the sense of being
possessed, of being swallowed. Was this
 why my lonely, fleeing, hiding life
more than all else? Why I left you
 Creatures? Why I left you, Architect?

Come to the great Fountain that greets
 all, insists a drink. This too grown
from world itself, not crafted by
 men’s hands? It looks more fallen,
though, yet burbles frothy, yes still
 insists a drink.

Not a drink but a decision:
 left or right? A crux to distinct
paths, each a phantom gesturing
 hand, inviting, encouraging.
Which way to find you, Architect?
 Are you really waiting me?

For a short ever or more I stand
 here, far from home, stupid with
touch old bites of memories, of griefs.
 I try to remember, claw into my heart
for its deep wounds & stars. The cold sky
 bends me lower, I breathe twice, I let,
I release.

My hands cup a drink, ever like
 the remembering I claim to seek.
Splash my face, arms, remember,
 remember, now go.

Left. I choose left, my Blue Suitcase
 in hand again. I choose it not
because I know, but because among
 those tough old bites of memory
there is something sweet still, a whisker,
 a sniffing nose. Soft fur. There.

* * * * * *

xxx. Trebles in Time

I feel you spying upon me, young girl
 I was, that great spyglass you
sat at those years in the Architect’s
  Tower office window. I am one of the
distant moving figures you can’t quite reck,
 hurrying a vines-&-stones-lined path
you cannot go but in dreams.

I, we, treble in time, seeing through
 each other’s eyes, feeling oddly how
we share not-quite-same bodies, me knowing
 what happened next & next & next to
I, we, but you with the live little details
 of life lived here then. My fewer years
then, brighter, mysterious, hungrier because
 appetites still new, yet unquenched by disappointment.

I feel again the too-low shaky stool I sat on
 to use the spyglass, awkward half lean
into it, & too heavy to move much. My dreams
 of that Gate down there half-learning me
its elusive, slow, kinetic movements, half
 fooling me into seeing what wasn’t there.
Refused distinction between waking & dream.

Your lectures rare & obscure, more eruptions
 of though reacting to your books, whatever
you were chasing in those ancient thin leaves.
 Silence, nor the kind encouraging questions.
Even simple, local ones, like: what are those
 faces in the column along the winding stairs
up to here? Some crying out, yet some smiling?
 Some now human or known animal?

So I’d study the innards of the Tangled Gate,
 its branching roots, shadowed-out mysteries.
I’d study you down there, me, looking back
 up at you, us looking further along our
path, ruling in unknown castles, grown &
 wetly coupling handsome men. Then—

Voices behind me, noises, I turn.
 A branch pokes up through the roof,
a speeding patch of stars visible.
 We open my mouth but tis the King my
father crying out, angry, against the
 Architect, waving off his plea.
Long words, somehow clung to bark & breath.

I watch you watching me still as he
 carries you away, forbids me return.
Like my friends in the tunnels &
 Great Cavern in my dreams had trie
to forbid me. Yet we dreamed me on here,
 didn’t we? Dreamed me deeper than
any had ever gone. Dreamed me return
 despite promises to King, to my friends.

They forbid me too, begged me really,
 my love for them their only power
to protect me. Our last banquet, so many
 present to honor my birthday. I shake
my head. Like my father, cruel.

I see the day you I returned, years past,
 still those faces in the column, still
the Architect & his old tomes. Only difference
 is his slight sniff as I pass his great table.
Only difference I can move the spyglass
 now some. Only difference that I lean
to accept that waking & dreaming are not
 always two. All slowing is all life,
all matter. Sniff. Hmmmmmm.

******

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