POET'S VEST

When I wear the poet's vest,

people stop and stare.

When I walk down the street, 

they follow me. As if mellifluous words 

were trapped in the hemline.

My poet's vest has bolstered me 

through many poetry readings where 

I doubted my words, but they became whole 

and imbued with context. 

My poet's vest made from war-torn Highland

huipils of women no longer alive.

Their voices speak to me 

when I wear the poet's vest. 

Indigo flowers teach the fabric 

of the midnight skies, 

where an Aurora flits and dances 

like a raucous parrots and star clusters 

contemplate the sky's jewels.

My poet's vest, older than all my relationships, 

I bought on sale, it cost a month rent. 

My friends urging me on, saying: it's so you.

It was a great thing to do, I am so frugal, 

especially when it comes to the self, 

I counted out my money, 

friends chipping in $10 here, $5 there. 

Leap of faith that all would work out in the end.

See, I had just given a reading in the gallery 

where the walls were cloud banks. 

All that investment of summer sky 

and night secrets. Susan says 

nichtallaludi, a Greek word 

of hidden muses wanting to dance 

on the tongue of night.

To paint flowers on the tongue

iI was not a feathered cloak,

but it was my passage to another world.

8/19/2016

Ellen Bass Workshop