Letter to the Poet Diane Wakoski
by Yogi Carmichael

Diane Wakoski, poet woman
philosopher of self-journey, of meaning of
humans, of Diane, of Medea,
are you telling your story
or mine?

Yet not a single one
of your memories
is mine.

i don’t like movies
especially teenage ones;
i’ve never had a child
nor given it away;
i haven’t been betrayed
by the King of Spain
or Jason.

But i am sometimes defined
by where i am.
‘Love, where are you leading me now’ has been
a motto for me too,
though hidden in the
deepest crevasses you talk about all the time—
ones that i would never enter
to save my soul. . .

but maybe yours.
We are both California girls
same vintage
same four-door sedan model
same lack of Elvis and Everly Brothers
same love of words
same love. . . 

i am in the desert waiting
for the apple or the snake
or the apocalypse or calypso;
it is hard
to know sometimes.

You there in Michigan
and the three cafés
Rose Ritter Mailbag
bearing letter-flower children
for your knights
and yourself
and me.

will our paths cross?

Will we like
each other maybe
not.
i don’t have that
which you have hunted;
i have always been a nun
myself.

Diane
wake upski
why hunt?
Is life the search after
something
that when found
you know it
isn’t it.

i don’t have that
which you have hunted. . .
but of course my man
does.

i am afraid to meet you.

 

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