Tuesday, April 03, 2012

Starlight Green As Tombstones

leave no footprints on the stone

sill or door jam fingerprints.

pass through the ivy

covered stucco house,

wisteria burdened garden

gate ajar, for safe passage

entreat the raspberry

brambles. down

the hill. flesh releases

crushed thyme’s salivating

promise to feast. on

muscles and sinew. push

and press; inhale the sage

scented scythe moon,

do not stop for poppy reminders

of sunrise. stroke the lock of hair

in your rough spun linen pocket.

finger the cutting you took from her

slumbering fancy. to hold me. red clay

dust your feet on the hunter’s track;

dandelion your bitter tongue to clean

your slow heart; run through the oak,

birch and evergreens. if

the hollies are berried, the sexes are

content. cut a sprig of rosemary. slip

behind. the pyramid mausoleum, dash

across the ribbon called creek to the squat

round stone tomb. through the iron ring

window, steal a vision

of the virgin still beneath the black rose

shroud on hard stone, under silken robe.

three times round the stone, identical

sets of prints like dried blood chant

about narrow slender feet dancing

before she went inside and laid down.

to enter, place your feet on her dusty remains.

the other way walk. imprint your wet terra cotta

mud tracks on her remnants three times round. until the latch

clicks. hinges sigh. door creaks

open. approach the stiff. knife ready

to sacrifice yourself, cut your own.

with rosemary, braid the lock to yours.

peer through her outer ear maze,

across the eardrum tautly stretched,

pass the ever ready hammer,

to see her mind. take the silver cross from her

upturned right hand. the cowrie shell

from under her left

palm. kiss the twisted union

of your drama. place it between her breasts.

wait. her eyelids may shiver. hands

spasm struggle to clench the token.

leave her in starlight green as tombstones,

I will. now that you are bound. who I was crumbles

as I rise. notice the comets in my eyes .

NOTE: This is a revision. And whilst we are supposed to write a new poem everyday, I figured this fit the spirit of NaPoRiMo, in that I devote such little time to making hard, tough, calculated edits on my poems. I tend to write, re-write, re-write again and then leave my poems for dead in the graveyard of my hard drive. So, from time to time this month, I shall resurrect a few of the elusive ones which always seem to get away from me and yet simultaneously haunt me.


Joel Dias-Porter said...

I'm feeling this, it's very, very tight. I'm going to let it marinate a bit before I say anything substantive.

Christina Springer said...

Thanks, Joel! As always your insight is valued!