Remember, you can have what you ask for. Ask for everything.
Diane DiPrima
I don’t want much, now.
When I was young, I wanted
that long dark hair, those tits, that ass
just so I could say I had them.
I don’t want that. She’s gone,
and the planet she inhabited
is not doing that well.
I don’t ask for much.
I ask for everything.
I don’t want a green new deal.
I want a green-blue planet.
In my mind, I see the flat gray rivers
flowing through green fields and hills
in my mother’s homeland, near Chauvingy.
Through labyrinth canals, I hear the tourmaline water falls
tumbling over ochre sandstone cliffs
into the lush blue-green punch bowl
in the land of the Havasupai.
In my dreams, an icy Lake Michigan
covered with hoarfrost spread out
with fresh water beyond the horizon
resting comfortably under a warm blanket
of snow reassures me winter will end.
In my dreams, I see a rainbow bridge
connecting Santa Cruz island to the mainland
and the children of the Chumash
walking among us as our brothers and sisters
the dolphins, whales, and otters
cavort in the pure blue waters of the Santa Barbara channel.
I know a beach so pure and perfect
I see it every day like Yeats’ Innisfree.
Did DiPalma have a secret beach?
I don’t want flesh, or money,
I want it all:
this world I imagine,
this land where my ancestors rest,
this new-old world of tie-dyed dreams,
the infinite powers of a healthy planet,
a world stretching to the limits of imagination
then beyond.
It cannot be measured.
It cannot be separated.
It is all
I want.