Mamaki

 

She is a queen,

barefoot, barefooted

she sits at ease

anywhere on earth,

here at midday

behind the bramble patch,

the dust and the grit

in the creases of her footsoles

are jewels innumerable.

Barefoot, barefooted,

her body of light like yellow blown glass,

her robes the scarlet

of roses, poppies

as they break, break open

their hearts to the sun.

All lands are hers,

even the bramble-patch

with its great wealth

of ripening berries

their store of seeds, their juices

like vats of wine

maturing.

Queen of the bramble-flowers

lifting up nectar

to butterflies in ballgowns

of brown and orange, velvet-feather-dusted;

of the holes beneath the roots where fieldmice raise

young families, squeakily.

This, this is a queen,

barefoot, barefooted

her body of light all greengage-golden,

amber, nectarine.

Holding out

in spotless, golden palm

the faceted jewel, the living diamond

of everything we never lost

always never knew we longed for.

Barefoot, barefooted

wherever everywhere

(no speck of dust

or silt

or grain of sand omitted)

in all earth’s lush and dusty spaces

she sits, a queen,

her hand spills forth

everything we always have

jewels illimited

as our hearts break open, open.

 

Clair Mullineaux