Roseate Morning

April 3, 2009
By Laura Grantham BRONZE, Canterbury, Other
Laura Grantham BRONZE, Canterbury, Other
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

Sunlight pools like blood on the horizon.
Veiled mirrors of mine eyes lift up, find your fear.

There is no birthday. There is no nobility.
And the knife in my heart sticks where once it carved.

The sickness worms its way through thickened
Blood, putrid life-force.

Numbness compels me to open these veins.
Stasis pours forth without motion, without meaning.

And I do nothing. And nothing sounds like a bell
Slow, like a somnambulist, dolorous,

Desirous. Trapped between my hip-bones,
A hurt mouth breathes hurt words,

The slow, silken slip of precious cargo lost
To the callous air, the barren ether.

Glittering, glittering my eyes spark
In the voiceless dawn, my tragic peripeteia,

Finds you. And you, elect one, annunciate, elucidate
The soft ruin of those purple pieces lit with my own

Thoughts, that mysterious Sapphic wisdom of blue tundra.
Nothing you do, my knight, my noose,

Will loosen the stranglehold those effaced clouds
Pull tight, stretch taut between the infinite

Branches of my tree, my virgin bark.
The moon, muse-mother, mimics, mocks;

She spools silver thread to tease, an ersatz tincture.
The durable purity of the soul is our mutual downfall.

And all I want is blackness. There is no such thing
Except that which goes beyond the beating of my most

Monotonous organ. My god! Now no angel understands
The brevity of these curdled wax feathers, these broken wings.

Too few, too few, too few and far between;
The tears, the torrents, the tableaux of untimely mourning.

But today blood ribbons curl a reddish poison, shot
Through fluffy white flesh of thigh. Do not let

The luxury deceive you. Delicious so often disappoints.
Something hidden in you shifts, the tide turns.

The baby pink balloons a needling howl.
You move away and I am left, bereft;

My silver-coated son of Adam abandons his
Eve, his most miraculous manifestation.

Blood wax trickles. And a faceless, pin-pinched
Mannequin shuts one eye.

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