for I’ve access…if I wish it
to a universal voice…I’ll overlay
significance…I’ll imagine wisdom
in its ancient keening howl or…
its whispering syllables
ki-tana-po, ki-tana-po, hopet*
Bonnie Marshall
Artwork by John Farnsworth
“Apache Mountain Spirit Mask
*The ancient Hopi words of this chant have lost their English equivalent.
prophecy slipped through
open windows…born on a
west-wind fragrance of pale
ocean to agitate her white
curtains…disarray letters
on her desk…speak to her
in the scrape of gold red
autumn leaves dropped so
carelessly upon her porch,
in sunlit torch-ed flutter
imaged on her ceiling wall
a scrying need changed
currents in her blood…
changed direction of a
subtle weather vane within
her brain to mediate faint
polarities of thought
a water thirst rose underneath
her tongue… a drowsy scarf…
a need to compass steps across
a room…she pinched her palm
for focus…for holding of a golden
thought against fading brevity
of the pregnant light
some nights then…
the three year girl twins
would freeze in place
for countdown
ten…nine…eight….
then…naked time!
to rowdy monkeyness…
throw play clothes on the floor
bounce trampoline the couch
whoop laughter in the hall
slow tumble carpet steps
tag “germs!”…foot tickle
hair pull…sneaky pinch
rain shower tears…all better
ice cream dribble on their toes
to bubble bath…pajamas…bed
sometimes now…
they’re in their eighties…
one will call the other
of an evening…before bed
…shout…naked time!
then hang up listening to
the other’s merriment
Bonnie Marshall
Painting by Leah Chapin
tales told by crones catch us
tales told by crones catch us
in thorns of awe full disbelief
and tangle us in rawness at
beguiling edges of credulity
as when they tell us Mandragora
screams its loosening from earth…
kills the first to hear its shriek and
carries in its brew a potent sleep
like death enough to bury Cleopatra
in deep hallucinating dreams…unclasp
her wanting until Anthony’s return
as when Circe warned Odysseus
to place bee’s wax warmed… still
honey sweet against the eardrums
of his loyal oarsmen…lash himself
with ropes fast to the mast, so as
crazed with lust…not to dash
their bodies into wine-dark sea
toward distant Sirens singing
prophesies
as when we scoff at fortune tellers,
psychics, casters charting horoscopes
and refrain from seeing meaning in
crows angling through the sky….and
just at midnight…in darkness outside
our bedroom window… owl hoots
that we muffle with our pillows
Bonnie Marshall
Painting by Unknown Artist
tick tock smolder woman
(for Aggie)
old woman floats the
putting of an order in
the day…tick tock… no
aspirin for two hours…
while toxic juice leaks
from defrosting chicken
and cat sleeps in-different
upon floored Bargello
pillows…stitch in time…when
Eddie was in high school…
hear his music tin-tinnitus
dry rot the wallboards in
her ears to muffle pumping
metronome…tick tock…flutter
somewhere in her ribs on
tree limb bones wrapped
cotton bark to tingle fire
of roots in woolen socks on
old… tick tock…smolder woman
Bonnie Marshall
Painting by Pablo Picasso
Crones Tell Me Wonders
Crones tell me wonders
of times they were near death
womb warm…light beckoning…
and then harsh second birth
with sharp pain flashes
back to a gray unfolding.
Crones tell me of their dreams
for they dwell often there.
Then… like returned travelers…
they recount amazements
of places they have been.
“I dreamed laughing babies
invited me to dance.”
Her voice trailed thin laughter.
“What do you think of that…”
She wasn’t questioning…
just gazing past me…reflective,
mind back into that world.
“How lovely it would be…”
Reflection then…was mine.
Proem... 
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