Demeter Speaks After a Long Silence

Rosemary Catacalos

Who are you, gardener?

You dig deeply into me,

into the dark home of the old

woman who is a childless worm,

an imperfect memory of grace.

She recollects everything when you

touch her, grows wings and rises

away from me at last.

You turn the earth of so many

graves: the miller, the bellmaker,

the Mayan who became a doctor,

the many women with fans.

You expose their roots to an air

suddenly made safe for the past,

freeing centuries of vultures（秃鹰）

that have been tied like

kites to buried rooftops.

You accomplish all this

without violence.

The blood you bring out of me

is sweet, guileless, ready,

laid open to the sky

with amazing ease.

I who have been angry for so long.

I who have been the barren rock,

the sand sucked dry by cactus,

the wet rot of jungle floors,

the hardened history of continents.

Under your hand I am again

the simplest of soils,

clean, accepting of seed,

throwing up roses that are

thornless and unashamed.

Who are you, gardener?

How long and where have you

wandered to bring me these words

I had almost forgotten,

this life that had almost stopped.