Three Poems

H.J. Elliot

Chant

I want to land somewhere in South America
airstrip clinging to sides of cliffs
jumping out in jeans
chullo and manta from sheep I have not yet met
Andes rising out of the mist to greet me
staff and llamas, goats to guide me
they will grow me up in this ancient new culture,
these mountains
I will be bright, like a fast star burning
pink and yellow thrown together dancing

I will not fade away
I will not fade away
I will not fade away

Pottery wheel spinning, flinging
orange, red
bits of clay into the kiln
and lie there baking
until that precious water vessel, pot
emerges and carries me to my loom
where Incan blue and Aztec red lay themselves down 
     together
and join and part

a pattern only they are familiar with
creating sacred purple in diamonds
mined out of the hills of memory

In the retablo I see myself
grinding the corn to make tortillas
chiles drying overhead
lending their heat to the beans simmering
these mortars and pestle movements all I know of this life
baby at my breast
swollen stomach wide as a sombrero
Francisco laughing, hand on belly, in the doorway
trying to make his way back to Texas

These delicious aromas like 
foreign countries

Come back to bed
skin smelling of coffee grounds and cigarettes
arms like orange rinds wrap themselves around me
and I give in to
these delicious aromas like foreign countries
no concept of the currency accepted

I open to you
as a window opens out onto rooftops
arms spread wide
ready to take in the rush should I fall
narrow cobblestone to catch me
while the streets are still
with empty morning

The bed beckons,
sheets lay devastated across the wise mattress
ripe with memories
and I

Shut the shutters
that left the cool smell of wet stone
in this night
from thunder like an air raid over the city
that brought in the rain
and the war between us

Since God left Chicago

Jerusalem sweeps over my body
like an old lover
and tells me Israel can wait
Jesus has come and gone
I’ve just missed him
The revolution is over
and I must begin again
this time alone

The veil is lifted and
Yemen whispers in my ear
I hear names of daughters and
plagues
far reaching
but I will remember none of it

Not the burnt offerings
nor the saffron sun
and will reach for you
again and again