The indefatigable Victoria Doerper has again graced us with a wondrous poem! Thank you Victoria!
Saint Sane
In breathless rush
Of wrestle
With a problem
Or a person
Or a heartbreak
Of tangled humanity
Suffering in a wilderness
Of pain
I conjure up Saint Sane,
Wearing a jaunty beret
And a string of bright orange
Beads that pop.
In one hand is a stick
She uses to walk
Difficult terrain
The other hand free
To gesture and proclaim
The oddest beauty
Of the moment,
Pinned, perhaps,
In prick of heavy brooch
To a sagging shoulder.
If Saint Sane
Were in my shoes
She would raise up
Her hem to better tap
A staccato dance,
Or toss her percussives
Altogether
And glide
Softly barefoot,
Feeling the warm sweep
Of golden sand
Anointing her feet.
But I am not Saint Sane
So I churn and tremble
At odd moments
Missing the beauty
Yet hoping still to find
Some whirl of joy
Near the calm center
Of the dance.
–V. Doerper, 05.01.14
Still Life with Tortillas 