Cat Tails

I went looking for this poem and found it here and here.

Refining is a practice
done precisely
     and methodically
to ensure the full recovery of gold,
as well as
an end
free of impurities
(which can lead to quality problems…. See Cracking Up.)

Fire assay is
most reliable
accurately determining the content of gold.
Melting a gold-bearing sample in a clay crucible
with
a mixture of fluxes (such as silica and borax),
lead oxide (called litharge), and
a reducing agent (frequently flour).
The drops of lead dissolve
the gold,
     the silver,
          the platinum.
Then they coalesce,
gradually descend through the sample
form a metallic layer at the bottom of the crucible.

After cooling,

the lead “button”
is separated

           from the slag layer

heated under oxidizing conditions
eliminating the lead.

The shiny metallic bead is left
containing
the precious metals.

The bead is boiled in nitric acid to dissolve the silver
(a process called parting),
and the gold residue is weighed.
If platinum metals are present,
they will alter the appearance of the bead,
and their concentration can sometimes be determined
by use of an arc spectrograph.

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A river red winding widening and thickening
color changing

Flying through layer of clouds
thin coverlet above
cotton batting stretched thin below
tiles of fields peak through

In the distance the sun bleaches the whites
stronger than promised
by the bottles advertised at 3:15 pm.

Oxbow dancing
river winding twisting…
A land alive, but not like butte & canyon

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My eyes drink the fractal patterns of clouds
over canyons from thirty thousand feet.
I gauge depth and estimate soil hardness.

"That white layer of stone, it's hard like bone.
And the red -- it's a soft blanket -- like flesh"

My eyes trace the sharp edge, where violence
of time pushed the red soil back from the bone
and broke through the barrier to softer --

softer
                stone
                                below.

My lips thicken; my hand touches my neck.
It has the same declination
as the butte wall.

I am dizzy with the pounding rhythm
of the crenellated edges -- stunned
into a trance.  

Earth and water command my eyes to dance.

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White Plymouth with vintage lines
parked downhill on Pershing Drive.
The dew on the rear window
kaleidoscopes the colors
of the Mexican blanket,
while bumper stickers proclaim:
(with fish) “Life is short, pray hard,”
“Thank God I am Forgiven.”
The turquoise interior
glows like a semi-precious
stone set in the Signet’s ring
of sun-lit chrome and red trim.

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        my index finger meets the intersection of three planes
        trace the edge as i would trace your spine
        slip my hands around cool leaden sides
        hugging the grey solid secure

        collapse the third dimension
        fall trapped inside the square
        explore horizons with flat fingers

        fold the second dimension
        balance along the grey line
        until it turns
                        widens
                                curves into white
        ceramic lip around my coffee

        i slip

        and pause to choose to fall
        inside -- kersplash --
        or out into the all
        choose both
        refuse either/or
        and drink deeply
                              

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Out of my bedroom window
Early
To the southeast
Venus in conjunction
With the waxing crescent Wolf moon
In the lightening cold sky.

The diamond brilliance set in the silver half ring
Burns into my memory
Like staring at an eclipse of the sun,
Like the moment you bite me on the back of my neck.

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I pass
big barns.
In block letters
I read
“1906,” “Troost,” “Schultz,” “1868.”
Big barns
standing strong on stone foundations;
big barns
bold in their red coats,
armed with bayonettes of lightning rods.

Driving through Michigan
I pass
houses hiding
in weeping willow and bowers of blooms.

Published in the Winter 1994 Penn Review, under the name Judith Newton (ne’e Bush) Vol 29 #1 along with my photo on the cover: Out of Our Element: Beached

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I sleep
as earth under moonlit snow.

In the spring
I want to grow into you, with you,
Surround you with my green rejoicing.

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Lingering on the blackboard in our conference room:
The words
Urdu
and
Horde.

I miss Farukkh and his passion for his homeland.
Over coffee
After the latest department politics–
What would he do, stuck in experimental physics?
What would I do, a woman in a strange land?–
We would talk of words and tensions and loneliness.

At some point he told me how the two words related,
And wrote them on the board so I could see them.

The only other words I know
That entered English from those regions
Are
Pajama
and
Shampoo.

Urdu [Hindi urdU-zaba^-n, lit., camp language](1796)
:an Indic language that is an official literary language of Pakistan and is widely used in India

horde [MF, G & Pol; MF & G, fr. Pol horda, of Mongolic origin; akin to Mongolian orda camp, horde] (1555)

pajama [Hindi pa^-ja^-ma, fr. Per pa^- leg + ja^-ma garment](ca. 1892)

shampoo [Hindi ca=po, imper. of ca=pna^- to press, shampoo](1762)

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Inarticulate longings
for the sudden caress of wind
that feels just like the cat’s first seductive pass at my leg
that feels just like sleepy sunlight tracing veins on my pale skin
that feels just like the ocean’s lulling murmur in my ear.

Inarticulate longings
for you.

12 September 92

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