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.