Susan Hahn

The Seventh Chakra

The forefinger and thumb thrum
on the odd feel of the short stiff hairs
like those found on a hog or a hat
of felt–press and mat
to the crown. That place

the sun hits first and the moon hides from
and the soul tries to crack
from its skull shell
like a newborn chick.
All the pushing in, the pushing out,
make the wound
so callous
yet always opening,
opening up to the opening
of the death of the dance:
the coulda, woulda, shoulda rumba
of the overexposed, over-
heated. Suddenly it’s too bright
to move–play at any game, even
golf–too hot–for the precise positioning
of the hands on that stick–
the putt, putt, putt into that
tiny bald hole. A larger one insists on being
dug, the thick shovel handled
by thug fists. It’s time
for the scorch of silence–
all focus on the delicate lotus
that has fought to emerge
from the moth-ravaged head.

Jozef Pieper

For man, to “be” means to “be on the way”–he cannot be in any other form; man is intrinsically a pilgrim, “not yet arrived”, regardless of whether he is aware of this or not, whether he accepts it or not. The object of this dynamism, the destination of this journey, the aim, therefore, of this becoming and the moving force underlying it all, is the good.

Ernesto Cardenal

Traveling on a Bus through the United States

Many years ago from a bus in Virginia or Alabama
I saw
a pink girl, in blue pants
standing on a ladder, picking apples
(her mother calling her from inside)
and another girl, her sister, blue pants
painting the porch of the house white
–And they gazed at the bus as it went by and accelerated.
Time has gone by like the Greyhound bus
but they’ve remained, despite the years, the paint
fresh on the porch
the brush dripping
the hand on the apple, their gazes
many years ago, one morning, Virginia or Alabama
forget which state.