Gradiva 
--Billie Chernicoff

She who walks
walking,
the woman who walks
that woman
walking,
the splendid one
unreal twice over
thus real, who walks
with her sisters,
the three who walk
early, in the dew. 

The dew, called
“what is it?” called
Dieu,
the teaching water,
drops of the night. 

She who does not stride
who does not go dreamily
who is real, who walks
with naked foot
who lifts her foot
and sets it down
sets her heel down
in wet grass
she whose toes, whose
arch, the arch of whose foot
whose foot lifts
and flexes, whose toes
press the earth
whose heel is firm
she who walks
walking ahead,
even of her sisters. 

Across the wet field.
She who has risen early
who hears the owl
and the mourning dove. 

She who lifts her skirt
who lifts the heavy cloth
the folds of
the stuff of her skirt
who gathers in her hand
the soft cloth of her garment
and lifts it from the ground
walking with wet feet and ankles
with cool feet in the dew. 

With warm thighs under her skirt
under the cloth, her warmth
as she walks, as she walks away
from chaos, history, obsession,
she to whom the walls of the city
are as mist.  

The rhythm of sisters
rhythm of hips
deep socket of the back
the sway of hips
spine rising
from the cleft of her buttocks
her torso rising, uplifted. 

Each step lifts her.
It is a rocking
and a sailing
a moving forward
while hovering. 

The unthinking acts of her feet
knees and hips, the hinges, the slip
the synovial fluency, the slip of
thighs overtaking each other
the genital slip, the smallest. 

Unreal twice over,
therefore real, she walks ahead
of those who imagine
remember, deny
and pursue her,
who are perplexed
refreshed, comforted
pleased, vexed, shaken by her,
who confuse her with her name. 

She slips away.
She balances,
acquiesces,
moves forward.
Her gaze is a sailing ship. 

Her foot on the earth
pleasures her, the earth
pressures her, answers her.
It is her pleasure. 

The moist cloud
of her breath
and of the earth,
her own perfume
in her skirt
in her armpit,
the perfume
of her sisters
of the grass
even of her name,
all these are in the air. 

The dew is in her skirt
her cloth, her clothes
her hem heavy with dew,
it cannot be helped.
That she is free of us,
free of our supplications
our promises,
free of our books. 

Her wet skirt is her book.
She who resolves
absolves and reveals
wrings out the solvent
from her own skirt.
Her hem rains,
love doctoring love. 

Our father the owl
our mother the mourning dove
our sisters the laughter of her sisters. 

The sun and moon are in the sky.
The morning star is in the sky,
a wet flame. How pale the moon is.
How at one everything is in her gaze. 

You walk with her
wait for her
marry and abandon her.
She heals the letters of your name. 

You dream you are her only errand.
She leaves her footprints in you. 

She who slips between columns
who advances, who rises
and walks on, splendid in walking.