Margaret_Little

Selections From The Works of

Wisdom

    The year when I knew
              everything I know now and
              have spent ever since, understanding;
    when I sat on the front bank and
              doubted my mother’s Methodist god,
              learned to whistle between my
                   cupped hands
              and thought about
                   toilet paper.
    Waldorf Toilet Tissue,
              supplied, the advertiser said,
              to guests at that great hotel
                   in New York City.
    That’s what we used, too;
              it was cheap and we
                   were poor.
    The year I unwittingly got my wisdom,
              questioned a god,
              became equal to heroes,
              and learned that
                   lonesome, night-train
                             whistle,
              the year I was eleven.

Costume for a Naked Dancer

    Bright ribbons and satiny tubes
              gathered at knees and ankles,
                   elbows and wrists,
              shaped lightly at subtle depths,
              undulating contra-dance.
    Within their moving,
              beads,
                   bubbly balls and
                             butterflies,
              dangle-tangle timpani
                        shimmering out of
                             rhythms playing with
                                       time,
                        rolling it among them.
    Swingy, flirty silks,
    sparkly clouds of
              gauzy chiffon
                        transparency,
                                  reflection.
    Sinews, muscles, organs,
    blood, breath and bones,
    willow in the wind,
    naked dancer.

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