" Hair of Dawn "
The story begins with red rain,
in a small room. Rain and
blood seeping from a body
that can no longer contain:
dust, hair, memories.
Perhaps memory comes
in the shape of dawn, slow
to ascend and darkly mottled
before we're able to see;
before we're able to know
the sex of ourselves.
Our unformed mouths
slave to warmth, sweets
saliva, thumb and prophecy.
The star pinned to a sky
no more than an embryo
promising gifts of the Magi.
Before the archangel spoke
who were you, child?
Virgin, girl, womb--shrine,
temple of worship, your cervix plundered
in the name of righteousness, love,
eye for an eye, and horsewhipped.
Before the hair of dawn spreads
across a landscape of shadows
like a broken mattress, the worn out
springs of her body, a son
will rise from that bed.
© 2002 Mia
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