|About the Book|
From the BookTHE VISITORThe cicada dies and remains,clutched to my upstairs window,punctuating thought.At dawn, it glows gold,a hyacinthlit from withinby emptiness,wings shedding needles of lightto thread the windy leaves.At noon it burns blue,folding the sky in its wings.Living locuststrill for its return,but it remainsloyal to its death.At night it is a black heartfeigning invisibility,patient,no longer fearing the cat.In Summer it remembersthe last cry of its wings.The storm comes, quickening the shadows,tormenting the screen,but still it clutcheswhirling with the earth.In Winter, windsturn trees to claws,but still it clings, waiting,molding itselfinto a diamond of ice.In Spring it is gone.Finally, I can leave this houseto findon my grandmother’s tomb stonea cicada’s shell broken and free.THE EARTH AS CRUCIFIXIONI had a thirst to buy a crucifixfrom fear, not love.A sudden terror I awoke withthat I was about to go outlike a pinched candle.That I would be nothing but a name.I searched in store after store.No cross. Found necklacesstrung with skulls, razors, clocks,glocks, pentagrams, smiley faces.No cross. Finally found itin a souvenir shop. Plastic, it shatteredand scattered like sterile seeds.I broke down, my bones sobbing.“I’ll be your crucifix,”said dragonfly,and spread his wings through the dying sun.“I’ll be your crucifix,”said snake,and pushed through his old skin to a dawn.“I’ll be your crucifix,”said deer,and showed me her gaping wound.And then I saw the world as crucifixion.And every living thing a Christ.Not one spared the spear.The heart alone the Paraclete.