Wednesday, January 2, 2013

The Dawn of Poem's Secret Naming, Jumbled

Here, I return this Edomite child found in the night dark dunes,
her black bloody wings and pale hollow glass head
filled with burnt spices which have fumed the insides with gold
whose surface now is like a glazed tile, but alas, dreary
and lifeless in the dawn. Was her head once a brilliant lantern
holding angelic fins, les poissons trembleurs comme seraphim?
Was she broken when dawn, her father, revealed her image, a relic,
with his smile, her unknown enemy, which to the blue and barren solitudes
trembled, shuttered, Oh lullabye, with your daughter, your innocence
in cold feet like a window hosts a horrible birth, and your voice, now
reminding me of the viola and harpsichord, their fingerprints
the fading pressures upon a bosom whose flowing whiteness
is no woman, but lips that look out into a blank blue starving.