Queen of the Rushes

When morning is a meniscus of light
on the rippling skin of Etang de Vaccarès,
I can hear them, hooves splashing
through the sun that grows
and I grow and I grow and I grow.
I belong to this marsh

and the sun is all mine.
The horses run in a rhythm
that would be my heart.
Flamingos alight on the marsh
like a rose sun setting
when the day has just begun

and I am the daughter of Ra,
alone on this foreign shore.
I drifted here in a small boat
with women named Mary, traveled
in Sara-la-Kali's blue glass lachrymal,
the servant of a servant

so she, fleeing, could bring some sun
with her sadness. I was her habit of home.
I have stayed with my horses
and all the birds I want
and the knot of stories
they whisper in town.

I am their secret.
I am the sun that hides in spring grass,
in the feathers of a wing,
in the mane of a white horse
and the salt spray its hooves
kick up when it runs.