by Lucie Brock-Broido

    In thrice 10，000 seasons， I will come back to this world

    In a white cotton dress. Kingdom of After My Own Heart.

    Kingdom of Fragile. Kingdom of Dwarves. When I come home，

    Teacups will quiver in their Dresden saucers， pentatonic chimes

    Will move in wind. A covey of alley cats will swarm on the side

    Porch & perch there， portents with quickened heartbeats

    You will feel against your ankles as you pass through.

    After the first millenium， we were supposed to die out.

    You had your face pressed up against the coarse dyed velvet

    Of the curtain， always looking out for your own transmigration：

    What colors you would wear， what cut of jewel，

    What kind of pageantry， if your legs would be tied

    Down， if there would be wandering tribes of minstrels

    Following with woodwinds in your wake.

    This work of mine， the kind of work which takes no arms to do，

    Is least noble of all. It's peopled by Wizards， the Forlorn，

    The Awkward， the Blinkers， the Spoon-Fingered， Agnostic Lispers，

    Stutterers of Prayer， the Flatulent， the Closet Weepers，

    The Charlatans. I am one of those. In January， the month the owls

    Nest in， I am a witness & a small thing altogether. The Kingdom

    Of Ingratitude. Kingdom of Lies. Kingdom of How Dare I.

    I go on dropping words like little pink fish eggs， unawares， slightly

    Illiterate， often on the mark. Waiting for the clear whoosh

    Of fluid to descend & cover them. A train like a silver

    Russian love pill for the sick at heart passes by

    My bedroom window in the night at the speed of mirage.

    In the next millenium， I will be middle aged. I do not do well

    In the marrow of things. Kingdom of Trick. Kingdom of Drug.

    In a lung-shaped suburb of Virginia， my sister will be childless

    Inside the ice storm， forcing the narcissus. We will send

    Each other valentines. The radio blowing out

    Vaughan Williams on the highway's purple moor.

    At nine o'clock， we will put away our sewing to speak

    Of lofty things while， in the pantry， little plants will nudge

    Their frail tips toward the light we made last century.

    When I come home， the dwarves will be long

    In their shadows & promiscuous. The alley cats will sneak

    Inside， curl about the legs of furniture， close the skins

    Inside their eyelids， sleep. Orchids will be intercrossed & sturdy.

    The sun will go down as I sit， thin armed， small breasted

    In my cotton dress， poked with eyelet stitches， a little lace，

    In the queer light left when a room snuffs out.

    I draw a bath， enter the water as a god enters water：

    Fertile， knowing， kind， surrounded by glass objects

    Which could break easily if mishandled or ill-touched.

    Everyone knows an unworshipped woman will betray you.

    There is always that promise， I like that. Kingdom of Kinesis.

    Kingdom of Benevolent. I will betray as a god betrays，

    With tenderheartedness. I've got this mystic streak in me.