Mythology
— after Tomaz Salamun
She is thunderhead, striking down the tall trees.
She lies with crying babies, rescues them from monsters.
We look at her with wonder and amazement.
Perhaps she is seashore, grains of sand.
She is a goddess or oak tree.
We wish her well that she does not stumble in her robes.
Maybe she is just a bit of iron pyrite, which will
Fool a miner into his pocket.
He will later brush this gold onto a tin plate,
And see his death.
Traitor to something, her head
Should be mounted on a spiked fence
At the outskirts of the village.
Maybe she is a suffragette, reborn.
She might warn outsiders that something is amiss.
In the village market, she might shout about money or taxes.
She should be put in a glass jar,
Her brain measured, her
Genetic code decoded.
Next spring, she might be in Oaxaca,
For la Dia de los Muertos. She will burn candles,
Sing songs. Perhaps she’ll go to Moscow,
Where children in fur hats will hold her hand
And give her licorice.
If she goes to Washington, they’ll say
“There she goes, did you see her?
She touched the iron gates, stopped near that tree.
She stood across the street at that bus stop.
And there, over there, she bought the newspaper.”
Originally appeared in Margie
