Ever since I declared that I will write an anthology of poetry, the poems come to me everyday, anywhere and everywhere
1
In an act of precision my lover makes surgery of me
Babble and foam in tongues encanting some devil I tried to forget
My eye loses true north and I roll away into the dark
Yet I have learned other languages
Beyond my own heart's speech
By tracking the pen of my dearest editor
Whose stroking red marks on the curves of my verse
Makes tension in the economy of words
I see sometimes in the softness of the space within him
That he is bilingual
His touch to me then,
The heat of his hand singing to my skin
Speaks to me in my native tongue
When he decides to put back together as a whole and make of us one
2
If my mind is my home
I live alone
By the shore of your river
Which sometimes floods its banks
Because I live by the fresh air of my open windows
And because my front door is rarely closed
I walk on wet floors when you storm
Before going up to my study to dry
Joanna Horton McPherson 