Aquamanile
Perhaps it is only the bodyof a woman roasted by time.
She is cracked and angular.
Meat falls from her bones.
Her eyes cooked shut. Her
bearded jaw baked open
venting toothless ululations.
Her high bleating howl
describes in an unknown tongue
everything she's done.
Every place she kept
her
hairbrush. Every day of getting
dressed. Each man; the size
of his hands; the pressure in
his pants. All the water that
washed her skin - she sings
down - each sheet of paper. What it
said. She sings down her
rapes and communions.
Every time she bled.
Every time she blessed.
Perhaps that woman
is me.
My rights and lefts all done
& babbled to the ceiling tiles.
Scars accepted, given and sung.
Old and raving and writing this now
in an invalid's daydream. Every
word chosen. Already
inscribed.In that case I
wash my hands.
 |
--Liz Linton |