After filling a heel of bread with stale anger
And tossing it off the ledge into rosemary, the rosemary
appeared on a plate of hot crust the next day
and the night moon over my shoulder
became a boiled egg shining dully
with salt from my fingers from the morning swim
and the fish I pulled spines from
later swam in the boat lights eating smaller fish eating smaller
men I’ve tried to love
songs, fears, conversations
exchanged in silence
and the money I’ve lost, guests hosted
glasses I’ve broken, refilled
bruises palmed as mulberries of varying bitterness
the flush of shame for existing at all painted
back on, the blush of mischief
from a crushed cactus flower;
judgments remanded, hopes dismissed
never in measure, rarely in sequence
without any sense of propriety and not for long
though possibly for long enough, and only in this sense
they must come back in reverse
without themselves returning
as when I bite my cheek to suck the blood to speak
and the dead carry on as the dead though dead
or when I blessed you or you ever touched me or
the stars visit us again in sleep
as if for the last time though not
for the last time in the end
quick—take this—
I am crossing under a bridge
becoming arches of a sanctuary that isn’t mine
there’s a trio playing music like a spell
and I don’t know how to cross the sound
to reach you and say, even if it isn’t true yet
we are not lost, we are
on our way.
Andrea writes: "Emissary is a word I've always loved that seems to condense the purpose of poetry to me. It's also a tongue-in-cheek reference to an ongoing joke between friends here, inspired by an offhand comment from some artsy socialite at a dinner table a few summers ago, that I 'looked like a spy.' I said something like 'Yes, the famous blind spy of Athens,' but later I thought of a better comeback. Poets are spies of the soul. I like it that emissary carries the connotation of both messenger and witness."