Unhinged The Spirit's Mysterious Wounds

Peter Munro


Light rinses down the dark axis of sight, reddens
my lids. Its burden thrums through my lively, flinches
shadow. Bruised indictments drum within a matrix
of branched veins. Cynics laughed the one time I refused
the anesthetic effects of rage. Now children

sharpen instruments shaped steel-blue by three soft blows
widen a crow's eyes. "You can't say that!" a throat scraped
God's sweet name, laughing. But I love the taste of blood
and the red scud of wine. I am thirsty. The shame
of it curves like a blade bright lets lively her flow.

Ganglia twitch as her young crimes gather scary.
Her jury's reflex "sorry" stays stuck where throats itch.
"You can't say that!" a black beak cocks the sweet Christ's will
you submit? fill my mouth at the white fountain? Slack
tongues of children sleep where darkness lies buried.

Where darkness unfolds lies God's blues crows cynics
tongue the syntax her notes slick, notes the untold
jowl of drools. A frantic music doth make you old
prick scolds children drink a little girl's lively pools
at her feet. Sharpen sharpen sharpen the manic.

Darkness. Singing. That is all. "You can't say that! Play
with me!". She splays her legs. I age with the ringing
in my ears. I turn away from the little girl
like a child curled up in my closet till my fears
are swallowed by her swallowed rage sharpen I pray.

She is alive. That is her crimes. Now I refuse
crows, crowed blues, and my jury of mockers as wives.
Her eyes wince open salty. Light and desire spawn
their gospel upon my tongue. My lively rinse
hymns crust blind chords sung from blood and love confused.

Copyright CrossConnect, Inc. 1996

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