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And a short section
from "Throne."

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Chiricú was kind
enough to publish

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seven sections of the poem.

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It's a scholarly journal,
but they also publish poems,

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and it's a wonderful
journal, so I recommend it.

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Maybe you just need to know that
my husband and I had a house

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fire sometime back.

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Begin again: the garden survived
the fire but not the months

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after.

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The house was a husk of an arc
overlooking the last marigolds.

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Papery, dissonant in wind.

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The neighbors downstairs,
of course, long gone.

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Despair is an afterlife, too.

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House made of cardboard and
light bulbs and mirrors.

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House of dying insects
and smoke and flood.

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Where is your angel?

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Throne like seed among
stones and birds,

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Buried in a shallow grave.

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Snuffed out, infant flame.

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If only visible things

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Would have more to
say about demise,

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I might not ask what
this dry shuddering light

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Has to do with me now,
as I cross the yard.

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As if the dryness is
meant to be crossed.

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As if the light shudders
and shudders for my sake.

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Should I deadhead the flowers?

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Should I close
them into a chest?

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Crumble their seeds into
beds, and wind, and wait?

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And if I am tired of the garden.

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Too tired to dress
it and keep it,

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Should I long after
what was, perhaps,

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To have arrived on earth.

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If only human enough, I'd
seen it into completion.

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Thank you.

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[APPLAUSE]

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