Dusk (from Echo & Lightning)

On her body
dusk. The circle of light
from the lamp falls on a pot
upon a round bowl
in front of the window
on her hips.
Roses bloom.
It’s as if the light has found
a way to enter the body.
It’s raining outside
and water flows into the vessels
and blossoms and out
on the umbrella
over the empty table.
On the lilacs.
It’s as if music, as if light
plunged into the clouds
and the clouds wrapped
around its fists.
Green leaves all hearts
and stems like vines
and the light in the body
went into the roots
and the roots were sending it back.
As if we were wrapped
by clouds and rain
and in the center
darkness lifted.

Spilled (from Cloud Birds)
   for Ana Mendieta

so light
the trembling of leaves
in the water’s mirror
shadow of your contour
shoulder on shore
line of tree, your spine.
so dark
the stones depth cold hip
I trace the root
in the earth’s script
where you’ve cast runes
written yourself in blood
or feathers spilled and mud
taken up with gunpowder
returned what never returns
to the continent or your hands
memory of fire
that cast its spark
into the vast body giving birth
and reaching
the branch that breaks
beneath the feet
drew yourself upon a leaf
falling
from a tree or upper story
lost with certainty
the perfect execution—
self was never the answer
only earth



Unknown Woman Miner (from Night Train Red Dust)

Cold shop. Bleak light.
She turns to face the lay off.
The company, she’s never trusted.
The whistle blew. Inside, hard
to tell day from night.
Safety glasses, standard issue.
Her hair combed from bobby pins
into corkscrew curls.
Fluorescent buzz.
Denim overalls. Kerchief.
Her pants with a hole worn through.
She blows black soot from her nose.
She wears a wool plaid sweater.
Her jacket’s slung on the chair.
In the back, a front end loader signals.
Her hand rests on the table. Nobody
doubts the fact she’s able. It’s rough.
She does what she does.
She will drive home
at morning to girls who look after
themselves. They fight.
It’s hard to sleep. Her joints ache
her lunch pail has rusted.
In the back pocket of her pants
she keeps something to protect herself.

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© Copyright, 2015, Sheila Packa.
All rights reserved.