The Night Honey Flew Free
(Illuminations not lost in translation)
(Quail-Gate) —turn the other cheek when your brother hits you & your best friend tells fibs nonresistance, or love Mennonite style Di Brandt
Quarry i. Dig deeper. Those slow-burning grudges like smudge-
pots lit under orange trees. Incapable of translation in Punjabi whatever the nightwind.
The frog piercing the Japanese cherrybloom weighs it, its metals green.
Marriage, after a long time, can become sacrifice, accommodation.
Icefolds brighten, then darken.
One comes upon the partner like an abandoned theme park.
Take your pick: Buildings in slums of Spain terrace hovering, wash pastel blowing offline. Cardinale.
Fueled loss makes us all become masks, masks made transparent melting into bone. Take your color from the ocean, Old Darling reminding me of old schoolrooms windows black eyes closed to bright noon.
Give me your color for safe-keeping though I am no nurse. I have my own Gethsemane: Blazing hospital aisles, spinal pain. In crisis, let me know things. ii. Try Syrian: A gas station is turned into a memorial overflowing with flowers: a youth was run over & dragged to death: Gas & run.
Petrocan in Maple Ridge is closed. Vigil. Dead pumps. Elegy.
Ethernets expanding.
Red uniforms are being smoothed for the Mounties, boots polished in readiness to mourn the four Mounties gunned down. In a terror the same in all translations. iii. Will day quarry woman from girl? A quandary burns. Holy peace will be where the river of lambs flows: Over under like a rose. Peace when life in a fiery furnace draws all four corners to a close. the four Mounties gunned down.
|