" Sea Fall"
I'm sick of death. Its cold arms,
glass-eyed stares; a crooked finger
pointed towards Elysium, death turned
Hollywood, the moon and stars with their false light.
What prophecy do I follow if I lose my sight?
Rome would have me cross the Meridian
past Greenwich Time, the glazed horizon
spread out like picnic cloth; painted pictures
of paradise that remind me of pastorals,
Bards grazing on odes old as rhyme
would not be mine.
This is my journey and I have seen it
twist and curled into a cortical shell
convoluted with or without volition
the coral of my body fluxed and exerted
up the stairs and down again
to retract the hoarded moments lost in vain,
the path neither straight nor arrow, and
thought of the reptile in her sullen state.
Lochness deprived of her tortoise shell, how she appears
once in a thousand years shy of camera or lens
her neck submerged in the curve of sleep, she
would be my lover, my held breath beneath
In the final hours when memories
descend upon me like a murder of crows
I would, in a fit of rage against sudden light,
tear away my flimsy wings, shave my legs and horrify
saints with their pet angels. I would deny those
who would believe the serpent a common enemy,
return to Eden and end my season of exile.
© 2002 Mia
|
|
