The spirit’s recovered body,
mending grief from dust to dust,
mediated by destinations and layered visions
resembling the whole / fragmented
and the fragmented / whole
in points of duration-less time
In the anonymity of lost identity,
we call to you, Andromeda;
rescue the falling and the failing,
hold us in the armor of halos
and saintly poses disembodied from the flesh;
find for us comfort in the ritual of
blue infinities and cloud-hands folded in prayer
From your rock tower, speak with compassion
of loneliness adrift in union and isolation,
and of lifelines lost or tenuously found;
help us climb from grief to hear your words—
calling to all—
to invite / besiege the closure of forgiveness
for the mind’s solace and the heart’s redemption
Christina Murphy’s poetry is about consciousness as subjective awareness, and her work appears in a range of journals and anthologies including PANK
View original post 40 more words
While your last night
cruised the silk road
to the light-swollen stars,
today you log long hours
under a tree,
like a fallen apple
wondering whatever happened
to all that weightlessness.
Where, in evening’s dark promise,
women were carafe-shaped
with the nectar
on their lips to prove it,
in the heat of noon,
one could just as easily
call you from a window,
to move something,
a mountain maybe.
When entire hours
with their flash and feeling,
these sun-cooked flesh-eaters
merely dull you to the bone,
plop you where they find you
until the raspy voice of duty
shunts you here, there,
with your head cauterized
and heart nowhere to be felt.
It’s how lives are lived around here
sometimes, to the fullest,
most times, in spite of themselves.
No surprise to Louise that Amber was drawn to the stars.
The throbbing of distant light, a long ago story told now
in a night sky, pitted, pierced, perforated –
a raging science shining with supposed gentleness.
Amber stood at her window, engrossed in the gentle beams of starlight.
She believed in Heaven then. Everything in the firmament
was a rung on a ladder, spasmodic but straight,
perfect for girlhood’s propagating blast.
Louise’s reign was over before it began.
The stars were something so vast they were containable.
But the boy next door was a different kind of shiny vaulted ceiling.
Louise knows the crack, the release, of something
a long time hatching, a gradating of the insides released,
all fissures all of the time, first above but eventually below,
when the woman emerges and Amber begins to look ahead,
and sometimes even down.
There’s no way to spare a…
View original post 30 more words
Ban sex in this house.
Even ban talk of sex,
And then thoughts of sex.
Let this be celibate house
#494506780 in the history
of the sex-free world.
We have the babies.
Why go on with it.
And we can drink caffeine-free coffee,
soda without sugar,
even beer without alcohol.
And let’s watch no TV.
Just stare at the blank screen.
Nor read newspapers.
But remember the news
from long ago.
Don’t answer the telephone.
Don’t even have a telephone.
And no book but the Bible.
The expurgated version that is.
We can kneel beside the bed
and pray that death come sooner
As long as that’s the express
wish of God that is.
Maybe we shouldn’t kneel
beside the bed
because that’s the scene
of all that sex
Okay, I know I shouldn’t be
talking of sex.
Or even thinking of sex
But I saw you praying
View original post 15 more words
Last night, at dusk, a young girl and boy
found a body washed up on the bank of a river.
They were just sixteen, out for a romantic scroll,
when they came across that woman.
The fading light made the smell even more overpowering,
darkened the green of her cheeks.
I’ve never come across a body.
It’s not like finding a much-desired gift
under the Christmas tree.
Or discovering, with fork in mouth, that I really do
love asparagus after all.
Or the revelation that I know the answers
to the test in front of me.
It’s surely the very opposite of these
and I can’t imagine what that would be like.
I can only wrap my head around
the absence of a gift,
the gruesomeness of an unlovely vegetable,
the repeated stonewalling of a question,
and I know that it is none of these.
Last night, at dusk, a…
View original post 84 more words