In all these brightly-painted halls,
she dances with someone elses' memories.
She still can't tell they're not her own
through hazy butterflies, through
star-walls mazing in the mist.
She knows nothing, except

She's not alone here in the garden
east of eden
(where the oak trees grow)

Genesis 3:15.

And like a sunrise in reverse
she goes down at eight am,
licking the life off of morning
with her mossy wing.
Someone gave her mayflies,
lacewings dusting her just-one-day
of glory smiling outside,
smiling inside
with starteeth gleaming
guidepost white.

She drew his constellations
through her hair like

like Jezebel come clean.

Still, she finds the memories
faulty in their coasts of paint--
tidal-sweeping, fishermen fled for the
birds weeping bread and watered
wine. This is not

my country, behold, the butterfly queen
in portraits glorified, enthroned,
entombed in paint without her face.
And still, her name is branded on
with fingers wound in rings between
the trees, his knees brushing inside
the chrysalis crown of truth transformed.

She knows nothing, except this garden
east of eden
where no trees grow.

Malachi 3:15.

AKL 4/2007