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And once, and once. The pick eye settled on,
accidentally right, the fists
punishing her xylophone: that squatter past
absorbs late-century afternoons,
Ohio shimmering, that Tuesday like a scar
along the tissue of Creation,
new stakes in wind, in claims of field,
in floors, wind-lifted under me,
built to give, as the butcheries
begin, as cousins
call down
rites of slaughter on their cousins. I loosen
my grip another time,
but see the pick drawn free, this sabbath
photo-spread,
these scenes of warriors I have no quarrel with,
and see the face of Bernadette,
whispering against blood-enterprise, against
theologies in arms,
her words, like a good salt, to coax an evening
to full-scale. I put
that fight behind. And feel the child-by-child
swarm of holidays,
the voices raised to banquet on fresh air,
put by this murderous
esprit, these cries begun in cheap
depending on the body,
feeling its rise and fall, like blood
to marvel on, and feeling
the good blood break,
like a well-made
wave within. |
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from pick
robert lietz |