OPEN
OPEN
(for Alice Walker)
You are open.
The delicate tracery
of your soul
is exposed.
You live a year’s December.
The cold eyes cast
upon the patterns
of your being
are not often kind,
not always clean.
Within the heart
of the heart
of your being
is a strong castiron stove,
an eternal demon flame.
How otherwise explain
your warm survival?
Sometimes
I watch you,
time your exquisite poise.
Then you are
Zora or Marie Laveau
or a mystery
I do not presume
to understand.
At those times
I fear you most,
because I can
love you
for what you are.
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