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Saturday, April 15, 2017

I fall asleep waiting for a call from the tribunal waiting for the elders to get here with their sacrificial blade I fall asleep before I die I want more dreams

I fall asleep waiting for a call from the tribunal waiting for the elders to get here with their sacrificial blade I fall asleep before I die I want more dreams 

Unbleached, the women stand in line and I'm beside Griselda loudly sobbing 
she says / each day this belief must contain / us / a we that's made of previously whole persons
the mythology that there are previously / whole people, goldfields, blazing star ghost 
flower after time by the side of the road from the desert to the sea but deep in the desert
this time, deep to the crux and where there's beach glass tossed on sunwave where there's 
no answer and it's late and the women in line are getting scared / I'm scared / I say 
to Griselda


I don't say anything because I don't want the moon to overhear me break covenant didn't I 
promise to wear my spine like a shield and my breast like a breastplate didn't I take the long horns 
of the Minotaur in my whetstone hands and say sharpen? At night I climb the rise
and lean my forehead against Orion's cool flat sword, I don't hunt. I don't fish or host I 
know my birthday is somewhere around here, so I don't even dare breathe tonight
I want off the road and out of the moon's light out of history's bleachy breath out


I fish around for the salt god's number and invoke him in a bath of electrolyte tears, fuck me
I beg / fuck my life / take the bare spot on a bird's chest and liken it to my losses
easy foretold easy in the hand so hard to slip the scalpel to who / was in there who left
her familiar lashed to the bed wasn't me wasn't my daughter I tell my daughter don't start
crying like Griselda you'll / never stop crying / don't give your number out to gods and when 
you go back to Hades go quiet and lone. Sometimes I'm on the road deep in the desert
and sunlight breaches my breastbone the only protection I took I wasn't  
thinking clearly when I packed my bag. The things I need don't fit
in the Minotaur's palm they don't fit / in with the salt god's retinue all the beautiful / people


on the road everyone must travel the belief that every day must include pain a gothic desert
veil the antiqued eyes of chicory no matter / how old a bloom tail fanned out across
waxbacked beetle tracks I can hear Griselda singing now you came from heaven / come into
me / you came from heaven and came into me / I became a place in the desert I ran the road
to the sea and back I wasn't stopped by any wet god I wasn't startled by any star
set careless on the rise a veined bloodrock burning alongside it in sympathy and I 
was burning out over and over again every / day must include / a we that were once presumed
whole / wholeheartedly I can't sing any longer my voice caves I take a punch a seacut
glass of stung nectar and mayfly. I don't have fine things any longer I have fine thoughts.

1 comment:

adams24 said...

Final sentence equals: smiles!