}} What I Might Say |

Poetry at Sangam

SangamHouse

 










What I Might Say

after Rumi
 
 
Tonight, I could be a fig tree, a resinous bed of mint,
a field of grapevines. Small and shivering leaves.

I could be bamboo, muttering to myself. Plaiting the edge
of a dried lake bed, waiting for the axe.

Rosemary, self-seeded among succulents. A trespasser,
not hiding my spikes, hoping you’ll let me stay.

The jewel spider, deep within the bezel of your eaves.
Guarding the threshold, ready with my silk.

Even belladonna in a ghostly dress, eyes unseeing, wide.
Circling the outside of your house, breathing through its cracks.

I long to be herbs in your fist, a lacquered eggplant, lemon.
A naked garlic clove, its fever numbing in your mouth.

Instead, while we sleep, I deepen under you. Become
uneasy water, an upturned boat, its mooring caught.
 
 
 
 
Part of the self leaves the body when we sleep
and changes shape. You might say, “Last night
I was a cypress tree, a small bed of tulips,
a field of grapevines.” Rumi*
 
 
 
 
 
 

*From ‘Unmarked boxes’ in The Essential Rumi: New Expanded Edition, 2004, translated by Coleman Barks. New York: HarperOne. 272