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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 3462 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention Polarity E. V. Brooks (Lia) Part I - Polarity of Lunar and the Political Prisoners They say I consider the moon-- A soft curve of light stretching wider than the view, when hands open Earth is silent- it does not listen, it cannot move. A child walks through the streets- edged with sandstone buildings. Night-clouds tug sky in the east as she sells lavender, door to door. Castle walls rise to meet her. I travel between her and the moon, watch silver cannons disarmed with her song. When she asks for light, dictators hide behind doors, when she asks for time, slaves dismantle the clocks. Could they hear her blow out the stars? Do they know she unembellished the dawn? Please tell me Can they glance up and see she moved far?- Because, looking back, I see a moon- it embraces their walls, they say it considers her strong. Part II - The Trial of Polarity I stare at a sundial that doesn’t care for the rages my fury leaves bare. I am concealed by iron and steel upon a rusty cart that journeys north across sand and stone- towards a white desert where mountains fume and seethe. The last slaves call for tempered claws of black vultures. They descend from high rock, stained cloth falls on dry cracked earth, flesh scatters on the air. Scavengers dive with frantic appetite, the desert seeps crimson. I collapse under weight of my sacrifice. I rise from the embers, walk across the silence where dunes drift- stand at a humble centre where iron and steel grow from a dusty birth, embodied, I turn the dial and count while moons come and go. Part III - Lunar and a Small Child The room, by lamp-light, is home. A cloth-bound doll lies on the floor close to a wicker basket filled high with foil-bound lavender. An upturned face explores the darkness- counting stars as they turn on, one by one. Small hands push the window wide. Dust risen from the mountains carries black feathers on the air. One settles in her palm as a new moon travels through space. Night lifts her song over roof-tops, along cool sandy streets, into homes, over walls where kings practice speeches. Further than the valley, higher than rock and silver cloud trails. The moon stoops, bares the burden of a small child’s voice, wipes opal rivers from her eyes and gives her sleep above the night-curve of the sky. |
