Candor--my Preceptor--is the only wile*


there are ancients in the soil

they wore their hairs more than two ways


in the depths they are not separate from the soil

I mean springing forth—I mean they have always been


as an orchid, as moss

as your spirit living inside one face and the next


there are two ways to listen to the song

Angel from Montgomery


what it does to hear Prine sing this one—

a yellow light gathers, halo in my ear


he is an old woman

named after his mother


I am waiting without wile

for the moment I am certain I can withdraw from woman


for the duration of a song

for as long as I live with this face


for a reason other than misogyny living inside

give me one thing that I can hold onto


candor of my flesh-soil

that I am one of them


*Emily Dickinson, 1876