Primitive

Gun empty, shot with intent,

I hoof hit/wheel roll/foot fall

dropping girasol like unfolding lies

then wait with convivial pause.

In the morning, a thump over the cattle grate;

the scene of an arrival; a foal on the run, mourning mothers milk.

 

In the night-time

we’re running moonshine over state lines,

black boot mafia

crossing chain link fences ’til

we’re making diamonds outta prayers.

Mouth raging pink with sainfoin,

dog soldiers lean on mud-brown huts – sharply muscled,

diesel in their veins and peach faced fuzz.

With the fleeting glare of a fox, I cut my teeth on the mountains

of my girlhood, for some pernicious reward that never came,

but through ravens call, hearken this …

ancestral voices dampen the well,

carrying my body boat in their fallacious swell.

Your tears collect in the hollow of my spine

so I stay stilled ’til they are dried.

 

A film of your despair visible only by the rush of midnight

and only one minute at that.

Thrown from your skin,

bones akimbo to the wind.

Death an internship,

slicing away at dreams and blanketed forces of thought.

A stretch of joy and a garrotte of light;

action put to the sword after a night of liberty.

Beauty is perilous, from cradle to casket (you should know this by now)

Unfold your eyes to the timbre of salute.

Peel open your mouth to speak a salacious moot of sin;

unknotting your limbs from unfeeling,

digging your fingers into the loam,

‘cos your daddy said, ‘there’s honey in that soil, milk in them stones.’

 

Seeking out the ground with eyes I put to sleep so many years ago,

I kneel and pat away at moistening roly-poly roots –

the pads of my fingers dewy and yielding

stamped with flecks of broken china

from seventeen nights of rain.

In the morning, we roll through doorjambs.

You walk behind me; I am your windbreaker.

How many accidents until we collide?

For there is a necklace of deep regret that won’t come loose –

la douleur exquise –

there is nothing ordinary about this.

Eating from the hands of the land,

summer steals in, tearing winter away.

The blood-red of birth, the placenta of earth

that cannot be washed away.

2 thoughts on “Primitive

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