|
||||||
|
||||||
Canticle of Hours Drizzle and dawn intermittent: a produce truck grunts and whines Crows, pre-echoes, cronk-cronk from the bell tower: all four lift off just Rain, unburdened, gives way to late sun: laughter spills from the Cracks in the glaze, flaws in the stained-blue light: the splash and Moonlight as if through a door left ajar: the high-pitched tick of a Canticle of Hunger They say she neither ate nor drank; She couldn't, having swallowed them, consume a cherry more; Disks as thin as an egg-white glaze; Dropped from the beaks of birds, one taste at each of the seven hours. Until regret, regret, regret turned to honey in her mouth. Canticle of Magdalene and the Lamp
She feels your eyes like a blind man's fingers touch her contours, She has mused at the lantern for years, waiting, listening to the flame The skull rests in her lap like a baby, heavy, anonymous, mysterious It is she herself who unbuttons her blouse, who vacates her alcove and She stands, pushes the chair flush with the table, and follows you, Jennifer Atkinson is the author of three books of poetry, the most recent of which is Drift Ice. She teaches in the MFA program at George Mason University in Virginia. (contact) |
Copyright 2River. Please do not use or reproduce without permission. |