February 24, 2015
This here Wild West is
no reprieve, bearing all secret, no rule, fewest boundary
before transgression. A lark, his caw, makes good on the temperament:
A song whose words aren’t sung
dirge that swells- expands when we’re not careful,
pent and held in on the balls of our feet. The tightrope ballet. Mourning the living
will make you too tired to dance
It will make you graceless.
What do I love when I love You, my God? Who? How?
Like bloodletting, hauling firewood into hearth,
like correction, the declaration during likely inappropriate timing, kin to patience, grand exemption,
the big free.
I love like tying apron strings, the renegotiation, waitsong in the watchtower,
measured, final nod of the martyred.
I was in love most of the time, anyway: lost for words
at the sight of rain like this, on the sidestreets, off St. Germain-
beating the asphalt half to death.
This heartbeat rides everything; it cracks tectonic plates. Tassels on throw pillows quiver
louder now, loud until.
To be disallowed his jaw: everyone at home watched my hair-trigger to a pillbox,
graceless as all Hell stewing. Blatant and ashamed, sober unto shame.
We planted knees into cemented church steps, then. Our roots intent to press, spool paths in the relief.
I’m sorry, but I don’t want to talk about April anymore.
I want to talk about the relief.
Imagine me, lucky enough to know a balm in Gilead. Justice comes now, more audibly than a cough
of right hook, siren swing. Thunder rumbles in the distance as if to say:
almost there- a few more seconds, please.
*Title is an excerpt from “The Season of Phantasmal Peace” by Derek Walcott