Lucy, what you want, that I will do.
To hear you now, your poem, but you need nothing.
The deer and the wild turkeys that drove
close now to hear you.
My life is full.
And its language, your voice.
I can't tell cold from heat.
Anxiety, dust, death, no, not even dust.
This is called "Your Picture."
Brown museum hair, brushed the way they brush it there.
Brown lit from inside.
Intelligent eyebrows.
A slightly wrinkly nose, a little flat.
Brown woman, I want your nose, your cheekbones of light.
I was brown.
I got white.
Your large and friendly mouth has opened in a half smile,
like the Dalai Lama once, in a procession.
His smile, what am I doing here?
But Lucy, your eyes.
So I gave all I had to the poor, standing about
like wild flowers.
Lucy, the spider moved last night, and again, this morning.
I wonder, do you sleep and wake where you are now?
Do spiders hibernate?
Do they lay eggs in webs on window panes?
You must know everything.
Into the sweet why.
Don't entreat it or question why, whistle why, whisper why.
Was sweetness done to you, done unto you?
What I wanted most, the mother, has come to me.
Will she stay in my ear?
Lucy, is it you?
Still, on night long, my Lucy.
I entreat you.
I will not let thee go, except thou bless me.