Wednesday, September 22, 2010

Self-hagiography 4

As St. Elspeth I spat fire and carpet tacks; everything around me got singed and stabled.

The flowers I often tried
to scoop were ash, pinned
to dry grass. I lied

and told my mother
there were never none to cull.
My hair, worn down for her

soon fried and fell, a burnt
scent meant I was left alone
to pick a cause, learn

a pity not my own plight.
I wrote poetry I didn't show.
The ditties were all slight

and lost moments after
they were writ, the fire--
belittling spit, tacks sure

and brutal. The pages
fixed up on my walls, charred--
killed and installed by rage

I never knew (now know)
I felt--stuck to the faces
of my melted world so

I would understand
nothing I made would keep
but would stay, orphaned

by my slack mouth.
I vowed silence in youth
and since, I owe it my outs.

: to listen is a cool cloth,
things come undone and fall like
fall leaves down and to truth

(a seed flame can bloom).

1 comment:

sara said...

ah-mayzin', I love the chaos of this.

we do something similar here: