"Thank You"

Is something I do not say.
You are not a gift. You are not a man
Wielding presents instead of sharp things.

Only children and dogs can be trained to show gratitude.
The balloon is released. The leash slips away
As soon as real desire passes by. Gratitude

Is the arc of a branch above the unpicked fruit.
The tomb's gaping mouth. Our ancestors tumbling back
To their tawny womb, dried apricots, figs, and dates

Fastened to their textiled wrists. Cherried earth. Spiraling fruit.
Magnificent bird perched on your shoulder, mute as an ear of corn.
Rubies crown the femur of our buried past.

Grateful is only half the truth. I hear the sigh of your pendulum. Let it
Swing. Let it swing. Vine of bruises. Stem of wrists, I plant them for you.

Copyright © 2004 Mia Leonin All rights reserved
from Chelsea
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission