Houses Made Only of Entrance

I will eat both the male
and the female fruit
—Olga Broumas

One thing only comes to mind
at a time.
                I hear the trilling
and the drone. Succulence
clefting open, a rush to pin
the sound.

I am alone on the branch.
It splits off from the tree
at a violent angle.
                   I sway, fill
with scents, multiply; my breasts swell—
but the trunk steadies, abides.

The grass beneath
is clean, divided,
two sides easily defined.
                   Whoever tends this
garden thrives on certainty,
self-denial, declaration.

The fathers' beards
part strictly down the middle.
It is human, is in all the books:
choose now or be left behind.

What of all those who do not choose?
and do not fall?
                   Neither man nor wife.
And at the same time both: not promised,
not withheld.

I have seen them.
I want to find them.
They who build
houses made only of entrance;
circular, open-thatched,

divine, where animals
drift freely in and out.

                Two things come to mind.
Dark seeds thud down,
tart citrus and pollen mingle, combine,

three, then four on my tongue.
                   I will not choose.
My balance stick attracts bees;
they are drawn to wavering,
                amorous resins, premonition.

Copyright © 2004 Abe Louise Young All rights reserved
from New Letters
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission