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Extra info for And Still I Rise
And the telephone's ringing that summons you back is no more and no less than the prayer-call of a world that has always pulled you forth with her promises: everything etched and distinct and all your questions answered, if only you will choose again, this once more, to be born, to carry existence as Atlas carries the earth, continually and with unchanged diligence, though tricked into it, though he thought he had escaped. Page 12 ARS POETICA These flat and leathery leaves of a dry country, dust on window ledges, grip of roots in the dirt see how the crone cups us in parched palms, blows a little wind into the ear: garlic, wild rose.
Its twin eyes open, watching not-death, not-life. We shed our wild selves like this, fearlessly, as water sheds its smoothness under wind, and the image breaks, the white house, the apple trees, the horses quivering with late summer flies as they graze, the hundred wings brushing the lake of their backs. Or the dog, who, seeing I will not open the door, lies down at last to sleep: how, in her dream, she chases down birds and barks softly. How later the door will open, and she in all her black and white ecstasy will burst through to the scent of damp earth, return shaking rain from her like seeds to the kitchen floor.
Yes, they say (that sweetness in the mouth mixing with pith, a difficult promise made once to a dark King), yes, I will return everything. Page 53 A STORY A woman tells me the story of a small wild bird, beautiful on her window sill, dead three days. " And when she went, it was. The emerald wing-feathers stirred, the throat seemed to beat again with pulse. Turned her face so her daughter would not see, though she would see. Page 54 NEEDLES OF PINE, OF MORNING By this morning, the color has gone from the gold of child's hair to yellow, stalled straw, to the dun of dry soil.