Her Blade Flowered Me

Her Blade Flowered Me

1

I am a figure, a man,

a shadow against the fens,

not a figure of race,

but a nightmare standing

against the background,

lit by a street lamp,

poised as if to run.

The knife inside me has turned.

Some Angel finally loosened Her grip.

     Her arm tired,

     or Her hand twitched,

and the blade flowered me.

The hilt nudged my spleen,

and I cried out in happiness.

Come into me, Angel.

Come into me and dull this pain

with Your sweet breath

that cools as it burns.

Make those small holes

into tearing voids

that blind me to the precious drops

spilling out my nostrils,

spilling out my throat.

Magnified, the fly’s eyes,

green then translucent blue,

then misty, turning back and forth

with the head of course, no sockets

in which to rotate,

swivel around the dock,

     behind a cart,

     then over boats

moored to the sand. Really in Jaffa,

Jonah embarked,

the fly watching him,

seeing it all.

Darling Angel hold me

while I drop to Earth.

Cover me with Your delicate

white wings and shield me

from the Holy Ghost

     Who is jealous

     of Your embrace.

Don’t let Him steal my spirit.

     Don’t let Him take me

     away from You.

The way I look at Him

is the way Powhatan watched

Smith emerge from the water,

his blunderbuss streaming.

Bodies must be bathed

before burial,

and our mothers

rub scalps with olive

     oil to loosen

     any dirt,

earth over pure

linen shrouding us.

O, Angel, I love You.

Your flight has trembled the leaves,

     but don’t worry.

I can die without You.

I can slumber outside Your arms.

2

Wir, ach, der Ast sind und das Eisen

     und das Süße reifender Gefahr.

And what should someone expect

     from You

     after they’re born?

You, wild, ineffable, secretive, two-horned

     and two-shaped or ivy-covered

     or bull-faced, warlike, howling,

     pure…

Leave the Bible open

with the head of it turned

to the East for three days,

and your brutal brother

can take my raw

flesh, have feasts, wrap me

in foliage decked

     with grape clusters.

You murderers on trial must smile

     lest You be thought…

Use the dark green portions of leeks

     in my broth, You givers

     of unmixed wine,

You killers of goats.

Lofty pines sway over white

plastic picnic tables.

Boys and girls play with sticks

and balls, off, putting the bounds,

all short, all long yet brief,

in the chairs or along the lawn.

Love, green in the weeds,

better than gray in the alley.

You of the trees, of the black goatskin,

     were these petals always here,

     beneath me?

You may pour wine on me

     as well.

As I hold Your hands

     it’s love.

When I hold my hands

     it’s prayer.

I feel my fingers slip

through my fingers

when I let go.

I want to hold my hands up,

up to offer something

because my fingers slip

through each other and flesh

     feels

so much like flesh that I want

to offer something up,

up because flesh could slip

     forever.

So my hands hold each other

again,

     hard

because I’m afraid,

and I love Your hands.

[assemblage]