A Speck of Dirt
I have learnt from you, the climate
of wanting things is as fore changing
as the way a woman smiles –
lipped upon a grease of frosted taupe,
mouthing invisible promises.
I have learnt the rip of this disguise
in the way you touched my hair - a veil
following me to the root, parrying my eyes
with a flex of dead earth,
my understanding of the sky, plotted
in the movement of a clean wind.
I have been led to believe
that this strip, this acidic comb
of concern is more beautiful
than any love, more dense
than any well, or glacial
than the rib of a whale , tarred
in the sands of a lost river.
It is more truthful than any grief,
unresolved in the black tipped roses
of a mother’s loss,
curled up into the tired dust
that kisses the lips of unanswered prayers,
delivering the regal lance of will
to a blind aching heart.
I have been frayed upon this,
this tripartite clasped around my neck -
burning silver bullets,
cured teeth to bite me in,
claim me Judas
in the honesty of my breath.
I have been left
as a speck of dirt –
brushed off the perfection of stars,
a whisper uncertain
at the back of my throat,
and the pilgrims of my palms -
for no question is worth
the fire's reprimand.
Lobotomised in rows -
our mouths move in unison;
a tablet of God on our tongues.
Ann Foxglove
Fri 21st Sep 2012 07:19
Loved it too - the image of the whale's rib too - fab as always Marianne.