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A/N: A comment Bart left on one of my poems, recently, sent me to assigning myself this.
You lived on three continents.
The first gave you your birth eyes,
their loveliness,
their temperate climate
and a radius for prophecy.
You had irises
descended from fairy queens
enthroned in virgin forests,
the crystal magic of something
long-beloved only souls know.
And then you fell,
odd-angled,
onto the next continent,
where he found you
and where those eyes gazed like
they never even learned to look,
where they carried in them heaven
from one day to the next,
where your heart did nothing
else but love.
Far away on the third,
your t'ai chi rose from fluid
to vapours: you, the lithesome
mistress of the ambient air
among fishnets drying,
baking on beaches
under an intrepid sun.
Mornings entered you like breath,
already reverent,
already pure.
And then, you fell once more,
from happy endings,
to where your eyes turned
even more pale,
ice floes reflecting both river
and sky: you grew new eyes
so you could die here,
on the second continent
where you collapsed, odd-angled
and so far away, home.
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Of all known institutions, I attend only two: church, in my heart, and school, in yours. Both are subject to demolition. - Lucie Adams, 2007
It is only for poetry to know how many stanzas fit into one caress. - Lucie Adams, 2008
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