Inspired by “Santa Fe” by Joy Harjo
The angels
Bring snow from the
Storehouses and it is not
Cold. And I am breathing
Cold kisses in front of a flurry
In university. Oh- it’s during
Class and not. That’s how you
Tell teachers’ preferences. It
Is theirs; it is mine. The
Snow has perfected
Everything: the mud,
The air, my vision,
My hair. I talk snow.
And there is nothing else
Until the waltz gets jealous
Of my tattered ballet slippers,
Lovingly hurled into the freezer.
They are pulverized and pink and
Perfect. They are the shape of my
Feet which are homely and hidden.
The slippers exfoliate for the feet,
Caress the imperfection of the feet.
And exfoliate now for a dance in
The campus basement, where they
Have known their lover, pink toes
On their mind. And space is as
Solid as the gray rubber floor,
The feet dancing through the
Snowflakes’ movements, my
Invention of this memory,
The angels bringing.
Good Fruit 