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Silver bells painted on my cheeks
so Mother could always find me,
my hair cut, woven into hers.
I polished the obsidian floor.
The sweetness at the centre
belonged to Tezcatlipoca –
Aztec Smoking-Mirror god.
Mother's memories rose
and sank into the burnished tiles.
Sometimes a vision serpent swayed
and a jaguar reared from its jaws.
Jimson weed takes away terror,
but at dawn before Mother woke,
I obediently dusted the dresser –
drawers full of stingray spines,
swordfish beaks, and a blade
called the Perforator
"for piercing tongues of daughters who talk".
From Magma No 30 (Winter 2004/5)
Could you ever imagine
a country as beautiful,
a wilderness lovelier than this?
In its soil are the roots
of a forest, Dandakaranya -
dream-green, dream-dark.
Its silence braided by the music
in the silver-blond plaits
of virgin waterfalls.
There a demon from Serendip,
disguised as a golden stag
darts in and out
of the corners of your eyes.
A fleeting flash of glitter,
which steals away
what desire cannot attain.
Elusive as the wind,
fleeing with the sunshine
it leads you away from yourself,
the more you chase it
through foliage and undergrowth.
It is still said
that if you see the golden deer
even once,
you are condemned to seek it
for the rest of your life
and never find it,
though you may catch
glimpses of it, now and then.
A fleeting flash of glitter,
antlers of gold
that snare the sun.
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