Speculation
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

When Basho’s frog jumped
into the pond time began.
When Issa warned the cricket
he was about to turn over
the preexisting soul laughed itself into form.
When Ryokan picked vegetables
with children, the unconvincing
darkness faded away, and the sheer livingness of it all
whetted the appetites of joy.

From What I Understand
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

From what I understand, the creation wept itself
into being—from the unseen to the seen,
from the subtle inwardness of elegant winds
to the storm urging on the lightning, from
coffins made of seashells to bread dissolving
in water, and the swan’s belly. Life has no intermissions,
and the scholar of needs explains everything,
and we all know whenever something is taught
something is omitted. I don’t know where
these words are going or where they’re coming from,
but my hair is bathed in wind and combed by the rain, and heaven
is the greater punishment, and I am weeping too.
My organized body—a prelude to every moment now.
And I’m off to go talking with the liturgical trees.

Every Creature Sincere
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

Moonlight through the shifted slat in the roof
of the barn catches the face of the new-born calf.
The old woman has the smell of butter on her hands.
The shadow of the house leapt away into the woods.
The common lot of us all—the wind visiting your hair
when you step outside the door—every creature
sincere. Pay attention to the dust leaving the world behind.

In Full Swing
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

Touch the egg and it grows wings.
Morning deepens your animal soul.
Choir harmonies become light as cotton.
And from the unobstructed phoenix caves
comes the subtle bodies of light drifting
inside the hum of bees. Guided by bells
and unstruck chords, it’s time to steal
the pearl from under the dragon’s chin.
You’ve already fallen, now the knowledge
is yours. There is no sole factor in ascendency.
Everything is already in full swing.

Names of Smoke
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

Newly hatched robins wake up with dew
on their prehistoric faces. Poppies have opened
their windows letting loose their tiny, round seeds.

The rectangle becomes the triangle, becomes
the circle. There’s a hawk-headed god in the woods
returning childhood to the eyes of old men.

Rain-varnished evening trees. What lives
in their dream-like minds? The reappearances
of snakes bring joy.

The aloneness of the alone, like lungs collecting
and distributing breath, changes everyone’s name
into smoke.