Anne Elezabeth Pluto




In the golden glow
your hair illuminates
the sleep tangled sheets
my hands pull through
gently wanting you
to wake up as I am
all ready for you
desirous to be
received again into your
final self.
Now, I long for you
the winter hours
stretch across the blue black
sky — each tender memory remains lit
by each kiss you gave
by the sound of your voice
by the smell of your skin
by the salt milk
taste of consummation
my blood mixed between us
and the radiance of your eyes
that filled the small tight room
with independent light.

A Phoenix Nest of Valentines

(Texas Love Poem #4)

The October light
sunrise early in the east
the black smoke sky on Venus
fire — orange and gold
the shiny crows gather
to the slender trees
a hawk circles
high and awake
I watch from inside
the cold morning calling me
out of my dreams.
I miss you already
before arrival
the sun hasn't risen yet
on you — the stars still give
Texas their light — when you hold
me in your hands imprint
their map onto my flesh
take up my open heart
in a phoenix nest
of new valentines
press me close
let your blood come hard
satisfy me into the future
brand me, the thunder of your heart
ignite me
and I will burn and burn
and burn
the luminous morning
out of night.

Lubbock Electric

Indiscriminate and irretrievable
the past splinters before us
like broken glass
there are times
when I am afraid to
move as if I will break
and break again your hands bind mine
against all that we have lost
alone — together — and found
by chance
by luck
in the name of god
at a time when all roads
led to the middle west — we see
each other without searching
I treasure even the minute
the clocks that do not work
unwound — left fallow to gather
up the splendid dust of hours spent
alone — together — the sound
of your heart against mine
the lights of Lubbock electric
all alight with midnight
fire — the dust rising from
the cotton cattle prairie
stretching out seemingly endless
I crave the future
haphazard mysterious
twisting out before me.


(Texas Love Poem #9)

I'd gladly follow them
Three men from the east
having watched the moon and stars
forever searching from their Persian tower
where now their tombs stand turquoise
studded blue reaching heaven — did it burn them
into splendor when they packed their gifts
and saddled camels for the journey west
and could He really have still been newborn
or was He already his mother's splendid son
whose uncommon life and violent death had yet to
open — a book we all have read and read again.
This Christmas the story passes through me as if you
had entered — welcome home this star it burns for me
as you — brilliant golden — the light you bring me from the west
your skin as it ignites my own and turned together
into the rope of our surrender — I'd gladly follow you
this Christmas to any manger — where they came too
and brought their gifts — for a healer, a holy man, a king.