they are watching from the trees
they are in the trees hanging faces
all who wanted to be came here to leave
selves shed fallen disarranged

who is the surgeon of the forest? the midwife of becoming?
how has she gathered them all gently?
her old hands on faultless skin hands cupping delicate chins
the smooth planes of their cheeks in her careful fingers

how does she cut
how does she sew

she has a gift for making
all seems silked over

her words shush the grass
all that she whispers
all that she kisses scars
criss cross criss cross

all my love
all my children

hidden in skirts
clung around legs
shouting

who is coming
who is coming

hear them snapping twigs
come giggling into the lime
light sun glimpses their bare arms
lights their hair

they are not young
should we forgive them

all my love
all my children
laughing and running away into the forest

hidden in my skirts
in the folds of leaf & silk
twig & net moss& satin
my cunning thread daring needles
my immaculate scissors disguised as starts
my incredible fingers
knotty & sure siezed w/ knowing

hidden in my skirts my certain hands
hidden in my skirts a map of the forest
hidden in my skirts a basket of fruit & pumkin seeds
hidden in my skirts a pocketful of sighs
hidden in my skirts a list of curious names for small men
hidden in my skirts unsightly legs
hidden in my skirts a necklace of silver bullets
hidden in my skirts an old rusty axe
hidden in my skirts a red pac-a-mac
hidden in my skirts a mirror full of spite
hidden in my skirts a hundred years of dreams
hidden in my skirts an infinity of hair
hidden in my skirts a hopeful of handsome princes
all hidden in my skirts

i am listening now for the panic of desire
i hear it hoofing through the undergrowth
galloping in a fathom of lace to this space
where i have begun to cultivate faces
i found them staring into mirrors
shop windows tv sets coffee cups
& i am so very old now i know
the magic of kissing
and it does not wake the sleeping