print previewback LISA RUSS SPAAR
Mate Madrigal
Which was it said take me with you—
body or mind? Which leapt first
toward him, walking in dusk’s molten ingot
transversing the lawn, as a lone swan thirsted,
blue geisha on the fake lake, dragging in wake
foam’s bridal train. As if they were colliding,
constellations & colostrum awoke beneath lace,
cells, ovaries, already recalculating to new tides,
weft, then warp, though I couldn’t move.
The future did not love us yet. I loved it.
Pale with oil, with fingertips of snow, then kindling,
I brushed the enchant, the loom, his woolen jacket.
A gesture chaste enough. Touch just a whisper.
But in that synaptic stitch I was named forever. 
Geisha Madrigal
Mate Madrigal
Mistress Madrigal
St-Germain Madrigal