A n n e   W a l d m a n :   K e e p i n g   T h e   W o r l d   S a f e   F o r   P o e t r y

N a p a l m   H e a l t h   S p a :   R e p o r t   2 0 1 5 :   S p e c i a l   E d i t i o n






The Letter A



For the lady, a fine black cloth & miniver

for furring the chaperons. I wanted to write a poem

to a person who has many aliases. In velvet

hood, a floor show, or according to her pleasure

inspecting grapes in the Verdanges tapestry.*

When she is she, she hangs back & decorates eyes,

for peace. Or she is he predicting locust migrations,

no less than her trail well-manned. Earning accolades,

she, he would take you in cathedrals dressed for ransom

until the stones sermon, histories of holidays

bound gagged, opting for any homage to the sun.

Mouthful of feathers & pumpkin seeds

formerly detained in the blood.



Early April, eclipsed in history, microcosm of Lascaux.

Rain metrics choruses resigned to eat heart

where beasts & birds caw & pule inside elaborate borders.

There is the letter A recurrent in Anne's book of hours

or skillfully sewn onto sky, while here the unicorn,

indistinguishable from candlelight, outwits the chateau

of Verteuil. Auburn brocade reflects manifold spring

like a jewel as the gist of prankish April dawns.

I'm turning death by the apple of her white red weave

through no absence of mirth, simultaneous skits by

a waterfall, where flaunting her lining, one glimpses

the Annunciation. The baby has eaten a calla lily!

A palatable green embodies the four noble truths

as well as those original skies. Love in a museum?

To me the beast on the banner

looks more like a shaggy lion than a porcupine.



* 1500