Stonehenge

Oh grey sisters
You hold up the sky on
Granite shoulders
While we seek to
Hold trouble out with roofs
That hide the stars
And banish sky and moon
To a life behind pressed glass.
The wildness has leaked out of us.
We have become barren, petrified
While your living rock stands sentry
Weeping in the rain
On Salisbury Plain.

Love

There is no room in your
life for a woman like me;
it's too inconvenient, too
demanding.
All that attention, affection,
affliction--
all that . . . messiness.

But love is a messy thing:
it stains the sheets
it leaves underwear on
your floor
it sneaks up to your door
and demands entrance
it gets close enough to
smell where you've been,
what you've done,
close enough to
scare you
and make you reach for your
holy books
with their guilt and fear
and excuses for
non-attachment.

Outside your window,
the shameless hibiscus
waves her vulva in the
summer heat
and exudes perfume
inviting any transient bee
to sample her nectar.