i am your woman in
ruby red silk sari with
gold thread-
i bear the mark of a
married woman high
on my forehead

for you i cook aromatic
spiced lamb-tender as
the light over morning
calcutta
yellow rice soft as a
painter's yellow ochre
on drying pallate

for hours i have watched
over slow rising flat bread
each  ****** of the heel
of my hand forming warm
dough into flat ovals

i bathe in the essence of
warm sandalwood and
the fruit smoke of incense

tonight i give to you the
secrets of womanflesh and
take you to me david
under white gauzy canopy
as the garden peacock
prims it's silken feathers
under the shadow of the
sundial-

tonight i am your temple
and the gods smile softly
with pleasure.            
                       ana christy

brady’s cafe



i’m doing a reading at kent state

got an interminably long wait to get on



protesters outside provoke the cops

about an after nine noise pollution law

they bang bongos and march through

the cafe

disrupting the readings

chanting

“noise is illegal noise is llegal.”



i am getting nerve racked and edgy

so i drink port from disguised juice bottle

we smoke a joint

the time drags and i get

somewhat drunk-my face a fiery blush

but no longer feel the thump of my heart

somewhere up in my neck



it’s round midnight

we smoke another

and suddenly i’m on

i totter up grabbing chairs for leverage



the crowd receptive to my words

never knew my mental anguish

or saw the slight in my left knee.


                   ana christy from beatnik blues

that week in Indiana

a 16 hour drive
Indiana bound
the road before
me wound here
and there as I
drove the day
the night filled
with anticipation
and lust for the
farmer and his
chickens cows
and an old brown
dog I was as free
as the wind
following the map
to the small town
that led me to him
that early dawn
and he was there
by the side of his
ramshackle
house in his army
fatigues and his
long brown hair
with a red bandana
oh god was he as
true to his photo
even better
and I did what
farmers daughters
do with handsome
men
in the hay loft
where mice ran
scattering
and the chickens
clucking and the
cows mooing and
the dog was barking
as we lay moaning
under an orange
moon-it was 18
years ago and I
dream of him still
we loved and lost
but the memories
stay and linger
still
there is a lot to
be said for Indiana
country boys with
red bandanas.

ana christy