Fall 2007 • Vol. XXIX No. 4 PoetryOctober 1, 2007 |

Dance of the Seven Veils

I did not pick one violet this year nor place each small bouquet in little china pitchers shaped like flutes or doves. But hid among the dandelions, long fields of green and dandelions, islands of gold. Oh my sirens, my harbingers of spring. And since I'm not Odysseus and unafraid, my small boat sallied sideways on the sand. They came in droves to meet me. I took my sisters' faces in my hands. We crept the cliffs and sang the peasant's clock, a rainbow locked, diphthong of lust, peacocks' fanfare, voices outrun the holy. And thus we called the mighty in. And true indeed, unfaithful every one— the men—and who could blame them? We were so beautiful, the very center of us edible, our lion hair, our leaf-like swords, all of us swinging lanterns, dancing the dance of the Pleiades, the seven sisters weaving silk out of our stories, dance of the seven veils. They thought of us—imagine— their korasions, their robber brides. Possessed they were and we would have it so. And when the m

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