Sandra Kohler
Gates
i.
My sister, my brother have gone to live
in the Village of the Old,
haven where the only dangers
are their own bodies,
mortal enemies.
There they are at leisure,
there is no labor.
What happens to
the labor of love
in this gated world
which keeps out, keeps
in, keeps safe,
shuts in, shuts
out, cuts off?
ii.
My back hurts.
What weight
have I lifted heedlessly,
not knowing
what I carry?
In my body this morning
pain is a gate
opening me to what
I would gladly shut
out, deny
entrance.
iii.
When, awake, you turn
off all the voices,
you are free;
when you sleep,
a gate opens and
the voices are back.
Dreaming, you are
their subject.
iv.
This morning’s wind is hesitant,
diminished, an old person’s wind. Still
the leaves flutter as if stirred by a god’s
passing, the ruffled petals of flowers
fold and unfold.
I glance into the front yard,
take in the bold dark gloriosa
daisy, monarda’s red violet, the few
late centaura montana, fringed blue
and indigo, a hydrangea’s creamy
heads of bloom.
Pleasure, a gate,
opens me.
