FLESHED

the winter House cage of bones aches to be fleshed back from its rusted sculpture left out in the snow &  ice too many seasons without words touch or sun just the Artic winds ripping the core hollow at the solo cusp of the universe not beautiful in its rancor not brave

aches to be flesh   for the artist’s long fingers of dawn drawing spinning gold bronze peach pink opalescent cloud glow in the mirrors of clouds lost in the pond with dark swans who have given up their glory to sun to sleep with their necks arched into each other’s down feathers on the waters of self-destruction with the old woman her wild weeping willow hair who comes to sit but forgets to feed them

to be coaxed out of such ravaged hiding in the cave of the singular here hurt bird trust the hand to cup

lift to breast to coo be spoken sung to sleep now in the deep rivers of Lethe without thought without the memory of all lost in the storm where there was no shelter no mother no brother no memory of moon glow no Book of Wisdom no pages of proclamation path to home

coaxed beckoned stroked by the long brushes of horsehair fallen queens betrayed by rook the knight the pawn forgotten goddesses eyelashes of broken dolls whose eyes don’t shut at night for sleep here here on the canvas cusp of being come here jittery bird in the storm of January into the night of savages

a new nest of tiniest twig dried flower milkweed sunflower petal yellow lemon light not a sun-glare but a lifting into early daylight lemon glow warm in the glass coach chariot traversing the horizon’s promise of distance tomorrow the agenda of awakening not to reason not to fear’s grapple at the neck at the gutted core

painted in lemon light day glow brave not alone at the cusp of the singular the cathedral of sky poised arrested by light & sudden music  movement   swirling colors & ink being in the mirror of river of remembering a bravery without letter without sound

fleshed into fleeting perfection of perception    a film of golden memory copper pennies thrown down a wishing well amber eyes arrested in gaze at the camera the other long fingers probing nectar from the hollows    the swell of river & milk from the mouth of the dark cave aquiver with awakening with touch the brush of hair flowing willow the trust of sky to fall back into night into pillow arms here elbow to elbow lost swans

 

[published in THE WOVEN TALE PRESS VOL.III]

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