The Tutor

Alpha:

The gray-green path lit itself,
Under the hedge way of silken skies,
Alighted by the tangerine cogence—
Betrothed to my grandmother’s heartbeat,
Slowing beneath the hand of history.

And we made sounds of amnesia,
Like English leather and cinnamon
Melding themselves to the war stories
Of barbershops at noon;
We collected the seashells left by volcanic
Ash shaped coyote sculptures.

The violinist angst—lost to
The myriad sounds of cherubim,
Decided both God and man could
Orchestrate the concrete hands
Clasped to the dark tail of compressed skies.

It rained both clay and magic,
And from them came the syringe
Of crimson host poured out in infatuate
Dreamscapes of my ancestry.

I walked.

Omega:

It burned like hot gasoline—
The furious red rusted over,
With the pale white light,
Seizing the lime-green tractors,
Like lovers when the night fades slowly.

And when night did fade,
The candle lit in dragon prayers—
From dragon mistresses
Gave us shadows of the ancient diatribes
Of children who whisper hymnals of light.

Under the shawl of utopia,
Next to the base of sounding oil rigs,
And wind blowing the electric
Surge of my mother’s womb,

Birthing the nomadic parcel bearers,
As they ascend further into the un-be-known,
The bruised purple cyclone eye-ever watching,
Between the pathways of ruby bougainvillea,

I bow.