good evening, mother caterpillar, you shall come with your husband to church on meatfare sunda

light is waxing a roman cure.
the grave-diggers with pipes in their mouths and bottles of wine
snap their connexion with the sun:
“the corn-cat will come and fetch you,”
purrs the wheat-wolf, holding open-palmed straw, bent to ash.

“slava of slava: drop the beak fruits
and the seeds and rices will be sown and sprouting,”
the corn-cat replies.


i am ra at noon, i am tum at eve.


when black mother cow refreshes with milk, peas, and dried pears, she moos:
“turn not your face away
from your servant,
for i am in distress;
hear me speedily and answer me,
draw near to my soul and deliver it.”

a large fish is killed to the empty pot of wine:
the dried fish forms mother cow's diet,
and hot water touches wine and wets the fish again;
rose and lily,
the mistletoe that cannot fall to the ground shrivels to vine
and anointing it with spices, mother cow wraps it in linens
and places it in the grave-diggers' tomb.
sheafs of corn puck at their sides, and they sing:
“a trial is held where the brandy is dug:
wise thief, in one moment made worthy by the wood
of your mistletoe.”

the corn-can lays the wheat-wolf's straw in the hen's nest,
and she can no longer carry away her eggs.

afflication sun

i am wine.
i am sapphire
on indigo beaches
perched
on a white rise
opaque from sands, threads,
eclipsing blue and green.

baited cloves dropped in:
my sleeve is bleeding,
and i am perforated.

in a world where i can drink you
there is a holocaust of mind:
without speaking, i know which traumas will die;
i have seen them lined up,
in their waiting.
their mouths are hollow,
and drinking makes them whole.
they soothe,
this is how you die:
cooking fish on the floor,
tossing bones in garbage heaps
that rot like a crown of willow leaves
on a vietnamese girl, washing her hands in hot water
with a bar of pig fat.