And will anyone come?
Yesterday I heard “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds,” and I thought about the Beatles–how they didn’t have to worry about drawing a crowd. (They might have thought about it before their debut at the Casbah Club–but I wonder whether they were just so amped about getting to play that they didn’t stop to worry about having an audience–and that’s cool!)
Plane ticket: Check
Rental car for the ride up to the Cape: Check
Books (!): Check
Audience: Still working to get the word out
What to wear: Whoops!
Until then, here’s a taste of what’s to come–Margo Berdeshevsky’s poem “To Open the Arms.”
I have been told. And in the returning bright
ahead of April I will carve a bird from a remnant bone, crone-
whisper it to fly, to be an owl, if it dares, haunt these passages,
what stolen heart and fresh blood in its delicate clasp,
arms, wide open?
The Filipina midwife who tells me how it is,
who watches lives coming in because I
crawl womb-ward, backward, busy
in my cave whittling bones of hope because,
always homesick for a tribe I do not, never
know how to join, like tracing paper–what
is a scream and what is a war, and what is
a hand for, if not for touching, making, what
is a wing for when it breaks, how to lie in kindness
how to plant for spring and not explosion’s terrible
art–because I make the infant lines, rather, have
a midwife to tell me how she mourns the deformed
baby girl, the blonde mother of three, dying stubbornly,
the metal marriage without love, the pale animals
all in one village who leave the land in concert,
on the wing.
Margo Berdeshevsky, “To Open the Arms,” from But a Passage in Wilderness