Wednesday, April 07, 2010

NaPoWriMo 2010: 6 April

The Ewe Seeks Her Lambs

She has the prim hips of one
who makes her own bread daily;
her sockets are fresh petals
around a brined curl of pearl.

"A father's curse is a heavy burden:
it weighs on the womb like idols."

She keeps a goatwool scarf tied
taut across the brow as I pour
whisky as blended as incests -
she refuses with a smile to tempt
an offer of long labour, gratis.

"I lost sight of him on the Efrat road;
a good man, worthy of sororital love."

Her white glance speaks of graves
and dust, birth-killed bones lost
between steads; her sumac breath
shows a devotion for hearths.

"He took my miracles, my desert fruits -
Atonement comes, and I must hug them."

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