Three Poems by Ann Cefola

by Ann Cefola

Translated to Spanish by Ligia Yamazaki

Postcard

The dead do not listen to entreaties; they watch.

Stirred by tears, love, work.

Moved like saints to lift a hand, May it be so. And it is:

That which they bind in heaven is bound on earth.

Their eyes stretch over an entire house, lips blow one leaf

behind my dog and me as we walk along wondering,

Who cares for us? Where is Delilah, who died a year ago

Thanksgiving? Curious leaves strafe the road yellow and red.

They know so much, the dead, but only speak wind and rain.

This hawk circling out of sight. One grounded gray

feather tipped in white. I unfold their message:

Wind Wait; hawk, Faith; feather, Write.

Wildlife

This morning wild turkeys like a string

of black pearls break across my ochre lawn,

a dozen, little, wise enough to lift in gobbles to low poplars

as a coyote pup—all inked face and tail—emerges from

a mulberry bush, stunned by the sight of the brown orange tribe

but spurred by easier rodent scents to sun-shadowed pine depths,

returning elders to peck, serenely gather their young

whom I’d love to follow single-file up the empty stream—

a last poult, belly full, eager to one day spread

my autumnal fan—but I am already with the awed coyote

racing the wood’s hungry heart.

Saffron

I stand on the edge of the canal,

blue-clouded moon above.

The swan with spiked-gray

feathers like oars, while

the other birds’ arc like white

pompadours, glides over to say,

And you?

Equally disheveled and splintered.

Although an Indian woman at the late

summer party told me

You’ve got your holy colors on—

citrine shirt, orange shawl—

like tiny red threads, cooked,

bleed amber and gold.

The swan’s obsidian eye

swallows the black bead of my heart.

And me, I whisper in my vibrant shawl

on the canal edge, the moon

bursting forth.