by Lorri
Neilsen Glenn
That spring
I was much
further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning Stevie Smith
April moon:
rushing
clouds. In bed I turn
into myself, the cat
curled around her ball
of sleep. No need to dream.
I know that knowledge began
here, one body
turning, not falling,
into space. One moon
glancing light from
elsewhere, light itself
a kind of absence. Somewhere
a cave, thin boys
with olive
skin crawling with fear, a mother
offering another girl child
to that thing with feathers.
A body lifted, another raw
red spurt of terror. Men
who breakfast over bombs,
a continent baking
in disease, all eyes
on another prize. Somewhere
a thief smiles,
rubs
the gold coin of an ancient
civilization. I raise my arms
from this bonehouse,
toss words to the hungry
wind, tread breathlessly
fathoming oceans.
