SILT Red oaks Old and high and dim-leafed Their branches saw in this cold wind Blasting off the waterlands I am your acorn Plant me rosy from pleasuring myself in dreams And I’ll overflow with silty past Come to me in my garden of flooded statuary The mud of the delta sticks to the thighs Of a white marble nymph A sleeping cat in agate Is all but buried in debris One pointed ear One veined temple exposed above the muck There is a statute in the law book of my mistress: “Taste all efflusions” Another: “Go forth until the daub on your tongue proves salty” In dream I go cold and absent At the spot of blood on a white sweater Wouldn’t it taste of salt? If only I could lift it from the cotton And taste I read you I am an adept at reading you Truth is latent in me Waiting for the Flood Moon Like the sea sloshing the Durdle Dor I feel the days pick pick pick At my chalky ribs The cure: Each day Going forth To find salt On a freshwater delta Marlene Tholl, © (p) 2007 Marlene Tholl (BMI). All rights reserved.