GAIL ENTREKIN : To a Daughter Moving On
NANCY A. HENRY : Passage
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To a Daughter Moving On Snow Roses Passage

To a Daughter Moving On
You say you are calling to tell me
you have slept with a man
and that after all the sturm and drang,
it was not so very big a deal –
that one thing simply lead to another
the way things do, and there was alcohol at the party, and he was someone you
liked, someone 'gentlemanly,' but in the course of events also you discovered he
was not for you, talked too much about cars, and you hope not to see him again, 
hope he won't feel obligated to call.

Too old to be a virgin at 19
you say flatly that you are happy
to be rid of the appellation
with all that it implied of religious
convictions, rigorous standards,
or a failure to engage.

You have once again pushed yourself,
you say, laughing ruefully, out of your hermitage into the world, and yet, really, 
contrary to what so many cultures kill and die for, thrusting bloody sheets out of 
windows for the crowd to see and burning girls who fail the test, really, you are 
no different today than yesterday.
                                  After we hang up I sit thinking how your body 
				has been 
opened and entered by someone I will never meet.

And didn't I lie down under many a stranger in my day, the red wine flowing, and 
did I pay a price?  I say nothing of this.

And also I don't say:
You have crossed over into the world without me.
From here on, a new way of connecting has entered your bones and the body 
from which you were made has become your history, the bodies that enter you 
now, your future.

From the GAIL ENTREKIN''s book Rearrangement of the Invisible 
(Poetic Matrix Press, 2012)

I have many things to write unto you but I will not write with pen and ink
--JOHN the theologian

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To a Daughter Moving On Snow Roses Passage

Snow Roses
The roses have bloomed after another long, white winter: Indian orange, fresh blood red, white edged in yellow like the blinding sun. All can see the roses bloom. It's June, after all. The snow can't last forever-- Better to be blinded by the soft warmth of the white roses Than snow-blind. A single petal falls, warm and white, against the black loam. My tears fall like snow and rose petals: In silence. Snow falls in silence--like some tears. But melts noisily and trickles (more like tears) in warmth. Rose petals fall--but only in the heat--or when the first frost (a harbinger of the snow) falls. Autumn, my autumn of dead debris, My truest love that seizes my body's urn You announce falling leaves and black branches outlined against a white sky. Already I feel the snowflakes chill my skin. But isn't it at that point when autumn greets summer to rob it of its lust and life that the roses are most brilliant, large and full-bloomed. The leaves are at their crest of fiery color too bold to touch? It is at that moment before the first snowflakes (which quickly melt to tears) that the once-supple leaves are too beautiful to bear….
Poetry endangers the established order  of the soul - Plato

To a Daughter Moving On Snow Roses Passage

The green eaves are all thorned with ice the roadways all are frost and glass at the grocery you buy salt, flour, flakes of coconut innocent as unmarked snow. You are traveling through a dozen worlds at once: this snowglobe of a small town, the great chaotic sea of galaxies the inexhaustible history of God the small rotations of this flawed heartbroken earth dressed for your journey in just your mended mustard coat, your tall son's outgrown boots and last year's scarlet gloves. How brave you are.
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GAIL ENTREKIN : To a Daughter Moving On
NANCY A. HENRY : Passage

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