Sidney Wade     Gainesville      (Sarah Carey)
Beatrice Rising

When I lived in Florida, I grew large.
It all grows large, in Florida--
the elephant ears, the cannas,
mangoes large as melons,
and the melons like Mars.
My heart ached in Florida,
large and round and stubborn,
like the moon hanging heavy
and red in the laurel oaks. My head
grew large, my eyes so large
I could see from coast to coast,
the brilliant, lonely sands,
the abrasive, shining waters.
And all those tiny houses,
hardly asleep in the night,
filled with tender nightmare
and uncontrollable desire.
And then my arms, yes my arms
grew large and began to rise
without effort, through the heavy
green night, little rivulets
of moisture slipping down my sides,
and my body too slipped slowly 
from its tether, rose inch by inch
till my thighs, my knees, my calves
and ankles trickled free of the moss,
of its spidery hold. And yet
something seemed to be holding me back--
as I spun slow in the night sky
I saw with my wonderful eyes
that my heart was tangled,
ever so gently, in the feathery
ribs of the darkly draped trees.