I Call to You from Time. Judith Sornberger

still as a fly

      in the dried paint.

      If she tried to stretch

      her arms or stand,

      she might flutter

      into a tarantella,

      batter her composure.

      Patient as a spider,

      she works light

      into pattern, draws

      from her dark interior

      the single strand

      of her attention.

      What I Heard This Morning Filling the Birdfeeder

      You thought I said dominion?

      Oh dear. Let’s backtrack

      here a little. As each bird

      flew from my fingers,

      each whale and finny thing

      swam from my tongue,

      each beast of the earth

      crept into being, I remember

      quite distinctly saying,

      Welcome to your domus.

      They all seemed to get it

      and set out to find their rooms.

      I greeted you with the same words.

      Could it be that you misheard?

      Or were you already

      too big for your fig leaves?

      Or did the error come

      when I whispered your mission?

      That’s always the trouble

      with translation. Listen,

      If I’d made one creature

      king, wouldn’t I at least

      have installed wings?

      If I’d meant you to go on

      this way, would I have tossed

      wings down the dark avenue

      of early morning to wait

      in the arbor vitae for you,

      putting on, one by one,

      their sparrow voices:

      Wake up. Wake up.

      Wake up.