USA

IS THE UNIVERSE WEARING A FROCK COAT 
OR JUST ITS OWN SHINING SKIN? 
 
Neither. It’s wearing a black wool coat 
studded with moth holes through which 
the light of its interior can shine. 
 
Spiders and earthworms celebrate 
the shimmer and flow of the universe, 
so shapeless in its baggy black coat. 
 
My own black coat is made of nylon, wool 
and cashmere. On one lapel I wear 
the heart-shaped brooch you gave me. 
 
Beneath my coat, which has no holes, 
my skin shines like Orion. My hips 
gleam infrared. Sizzle. Crackle. Kiss. 

 
HAS ANYONE EVER TRANSLATED 
RED INTO A STRING QUARTET IN G? 
 
Yes, in 1770 Mozart translated 
the red of the Monterey paintbrush 
into a quartet in G for two violins, 
viola and cello. In 1772 he did it 
with the blue of a scrub jay, 
and in 1782 with the yellow 
of a Kentucky warbler. He didn’t 
need to see the paintbrush, 
scrub jay, or warbler, only to listen 
to the seasons changing in his ear 
the way light and shadow sometimes 
tremble in my cells when we speak. 
 

IN THE FIELD OF THE POEM, 
WHEN WILL THE STAR TULIPS OPEN? 
 
When the evening grosbeak emerges, 
bright yellow, from a stand of pines 
to fly across an open field 
in the third line of the poem, 
star tulips will appear 
in a wet depression by the path. 
 
Fan-shaped petals will open pink, 
revealing an oblong gland 
with a fringe of golden hairs. 
The grosbeak will chirp loudly, 
breaking the poem’s silence, 
and you, my love, will take my hand..

IF A RHIZOME IS ALWAYS SURROUNDED, 
DO ROOTS AND TREES FEEL SAFE? 
 
A gangster surrounded by police would feel 
like a finch in an eagle’s claws, 
as would Joan of Arc in the flames. 
 
A fetus, though, surrounded by muscular 
uterine walls, the hiss of blood, 
and thump of a mother’s heart must feel 
 
far from harm’s way. For roots and trees, 
soil and air are a feast and feather bed, 
but I am an only child. When others snuggle, 
 
I still wonder where my ferry waits, 
until your arms wrap around me again, 
fog lifts, and the morning is my quay. 

 
EACH TIME A JUNGLE BURSTS INTO FLAME, 
DOES A STAR BLINK OUT IN THE MILKY WAY? 
 
Since stars blink out and are born each day, 
the probability is high that jungle fires 
will coincide with the deaths of stars. 
 
This should not be confused 
with causality, but as rain forests 
succumb to war or development, tiny 
 
unknown flowers and insects are lost 
to the universe, along with sources 
of the oxygen we crave, 
 
and when you’re angry, something 
sparkly disappears inside me--a small 
reddish star without a name. 

 
SINCE A MAP HAS MULTIPLE ENTRYWAYS, 
WHERE CAN I EXIT A DREAM? 
 
I especially want to escape 
the one where dinner for twenty costs 
more than two million dollars 
and I’m the only one with a credit card. 
 
Judy collapses in my arms 
when I show her the bill. I need your help 
at times like this, when the house 
slides off its foundation again 
 
and I can’t find a different route 
on the map of my neural connections 
or even my gate at the airport. Just kick me. 
Shake me. Get me out of this mess! 

 
WHEN PALM SHADOWS DANCE ON THE PAVEMENT, 
WHICH ONE KEEPS THE BEAT? 
 
It’s always the one on the far left, the tallest. 
That one used to play drums 
in a jazz band in New Orleans, in a club 
packed with laughter and dancing. 
 
Before that it was the heart of an oriole, 
tapping more than one hundred times 
each minute as the bird sang 
a medley of whistles and flute-like notes. 
 
Long before we were born, it was 
the sea itself, rhythmically slapping 
golden sand all along the California coast. 
It has always known the right beat. 
 
WHEN FOUR ICE CREAM TRUCKS MEET 
AT THE CORNER, DO THEY ARGUE OR CHAT? 
 
Sometimes they reminisce about the fifties 
when unleashed cocker spaniels ran alongside 
them, and you and I were kids on the street. 
There were fewer cars then, and we didn’t 
know our cholesterol and triglyceride levels. 
If they argue, it’s about the relative virtues 
of low fat versus regular ice cream, 
and low fat ice cream versus frozen yogurt. 
They remember when there weren’t 
so many choices. When this gets old, 
they gawk at SUVs and minivans, saying, 
“I wish we could head for the beach.” 
 
All poems are from The Book of Answers, (Finishing Line Press, 2006). Copyright © 2006, by Lucille Lang Day.

© All Copyright, Lucille Lang Day.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.