Tuesday, July 23, 2013

Wednesday’s Child


The sea is undulous. Hazard outweighs the bouquet
of bright islands you see ----everything turns
cold and watery. Arch of dawn, its bruised throat---and under the wind’s screech
a Siren’s restive song. Her hair in your mouth.  Boat pushing south.

Once was Wednesday  I was born
in my parents’ unmarried bed: March in me, and its outrageous moods.
The month of fish and detritus, of snow-drift and holy bodies sloughing
scabs and steeples, trusting the other to taste his grace, drink her pearlblue,

make fastidious work of the birth---Eve’s cast-off pain, Adam’s glistening
tongue. A blood-sting and dankstink. Wednesday’s mute
message (the apple, Eden’s crooked tree). Born to the blind freeze of squall, my father’s
eyes wide.

                That ancient look
 incendiary book and bond
                of tit the pinkslit-mouth
 the dewy breath
                Ides’ baby rooting
                her blind look.


What sets us all sail: the north wind’s shell-hymn,
Wednesday’s seasick ballerinas and damp gravesides. Brimstone song:
God shoots to kill.  (Still the tumbling prayer, the smoking choir, lilies and blizzards.)

Paddle like hell but sweetheart---he never misses.

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