Returning to you sylvia in the black week of no moon:
the carapace
the awkwardness
aflame with evidence
the jew-net of Poland
-- your rack of guilt.
to fly at the sun or burn in its shadow
emptying pockets before you leave
you reap an abandoned harvest, but
the acolytes who call and call hear the ringing of rocks;
bells around the necks
of ghosts
lying down in
hallowed halls, somewhere bellowing
their words
like yours
punishing me
punching me up the middle,
every image jagged remedy
my **** to my heart
jammed with grief,
throat swolen with loss
the case of your broken bits;
crockery splintered
in capsules or
shoeboxes or drawers carefully there, there
you are lips pressing
cold glass,
to kiss you to drink your warmth
impossible
after death I hear you;
crow sends your messages
but sweet sister that’s not why you call
inimical oven: cavern and synagogue,
I am undone
discovering buried treasure.
in the breath of trees you are
somehow there,
in the quick-slip of feet across smooth linoleum
my mausaleum agrees with your arrival
but in the hour before dawn
in the silent roaring volume
you never hear of my love for you
we are cold lovers
both agony
MChallis © 2000/2014
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 1:59 AM UTC
Returning to you sylvia in the black week of no moon:
the carapace
the awkwardness
aflame with evidence
the jew-net of Poland
-- your rack of guilt.
to fly at the sun or burn in its shadow
emptying pockets before you leave
you reap an abandoned harvest, but
the acolytes who call and call hear the ringing of rocks;
bells around the necks
of ghosts
lying down in
hallowed halls, somewhere bellowing
their words
like yours
punishing me
punching me up the middle,
every image jagged remedy
my **** to my heart
jammed with grief,
throat swolen with loss
the case of your broken bits;
crockery splintered
in capsules or
shoeboxes or drawers carefully there, there
you are lips pressing
cold glass,
to kiss you to drink your warmth
impossible
after death I hear you;
crow sends your messages
but sweet sister that’s not why you call
inimical oven: cavern and synagogue,
I am undone
discovering buried treasure.
in the breath of trees you are
somehow there,
in the quick-slip of feet across smooth linoleum
my mausaleum agrees with your arrival
but in the hour before dawn
in the silent roaring volume
you never hear of my love for you
we are cold lovers
both agony
MChallis © 2000/2014
Request permission to use this poem