The Rumored Lovechild
What do you hear in the wind outside, crying in the lines telegraphing crucifixions of disembodied words. Across the asphalt cavaties of this broken mounted city--what do you see worn upon the window panes to risk another wilderness and the stern virgin of wood waiting only for a word to turn to flesh, bred to hold a childs gentle mouth?
what do you see in the fire snarling and bleeding the wood with its thorny fingers at our eyes burning away the night what grim design can you expect to find for historys vivid metaphor with your childs dead hands riveted to the firewood like a statue?
Pilgrim, Pilgrim I can only hear the ear cracking thunder of two thousand stone tongues licking at the rubble of the last word said by a long, dead god---Christ! What maternal miracle can open up you ears in this nocturnal babylon that turns our hands to deaf and dumb assaults against the sun that once warmed our wooden loins?
Pilgrim, Pilgrim too many hands have closed to hope to find infants. Fingers still riding on a wooden breast, some mythic hill of love---can your millstone legs endure another spring, bred failure of some other world to flower love born, lightly bourne, on winters wooden arms?
Part of me, I am sickened by this blind and broken city howling in its sleep unable to awaken from rumors and alarms---is it me? Am I it? My Gods are mad, barking blindly through the city and running treeless streets to bite the rumored lovechild out of reach---
O Pilgrim, Pilgrim
Part of me, you make me cry that I have lived so long a lie of such a desolation I cannot see my sight is gone---will wind and window let the sun see these broken eyes and warm these crippled limbs that I can waken to the lovechild poised between our hands
Gerald Huckaby for Nov 20
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