Books by Diane Frank

Entering the Word Temple


His hands told her
that he was one of the Tantric sculptors
of the Temple in Varanasi
where Hindu gods and goddesses
are perpetually making love.

Half way around the world,
he traces the fire meridian
up her left leg.

The butterfly angel who dances
out of her heart chakra
has flame blue swallowtail

Men are the sea she swims in.
In the Temple in Varanasi
or on the basketball floor of the gym
at the 43rd and Judah
contra dance
in San Francisco.

She walks through the door
with a red pashmina shawl
draped around her shoulders.

Men are the sea she swims in
under floating summer light
when she dances
face to open face
with her eyes burning
a soft trail of fire.

He says,
"Let me be a soft cocoon
for you." He takes
her spinning through
soft blue light. He would
like to know the mystery.

During the silent prayer
she envisions his face —
blue pearl eyes,
the wide arc of his mouth,
his compassionate

She holds the sheets to her skin
wraps herself inside them
so she can breathe his molecules again.

An echo of burgundy satin
in the shape of the
ballgown she wore,

a single violet
fooled by November's warmth
into blooming,

the room where they danced
now empty except for
the echo of a flute.

The location is nowhere,
something exotic, foreign
something more musical than linguistic.

His hands emerge
from inside a sculpture of lovers
he carved centuries ago,
beauty without a filter.

Half way around the world
the sky is clear night after night,
Pegasus and the Pleiades
floating above
a long arc of milky stars.

The sky is open, transparent
except for the evening
of the Leonid meteor showers
and his voice
outside her window.

At four o'clock in the morning,
he is singing, "Wake up! Shine!
Come with me and see
the stars flying across the sky!
Sing to me! Don't be afraid."

She dreams she is a hummingbird
and she needs to fly
in the morning.

Her voice sings inside the sculpture
of the Temple at Varanasi,
beauty without a filter.

When she dances,
she discovers something about herself,
silver bells
wrapped around her ankles,
and the music comes from everywhere.

In another world
the contralto singing of a tamboura
and hands that teach her more deeply
who she is and where
she is located
on the Earth meridian.

Every time he speaks
a hummingbird
flies out of his mouth

And you have to
walk through fire
to go anywhere in her house.

— Diane Frank