LARISSA SZPORLUK

Harness

What if the sun sent wind to kill things
it couldn't kill itself,

and the wind struck hard,
smelling of grass on fire,

and stirred your ears before doing you in,
so the last thing you heard

was deceit, what things, what things,
the breath of unraveling love,

the word half, half-grass, half-fire.
Half-torn in the clouds,

half-sated, you were lulled by the sound
of carriage, pulled by the waist,

then raised, a gift, to the hottest place,
life's dark weight

sublimed in violet.
Call it dying well, the spell of family

broken. Call it facile,
missing no one, no devotion,

tossing all your bindings, all your shackles,
bareback on your loose assassin.

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