OBEMATA
My body, this river
…barks. Axes open wombs. Carpenter, woodpecker fill up the holes.
Chamber. Nest.
I lie like the dry bed of the river, washed, squeezed, riversand.
I am the bed, the log. I am the stone.
The river is the embalmer’s hands: cut me, wash me and let me hang out, dry.
The carpenter’s hand is a ruler, a chisel: measure my bed earth-end to the bend of my shoulder.
seal the chamber of rest, drive nails of guilt.
Christ like I.
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Sentinel Poetry #34 ONLINE MAGAZINE MONTHLY …since December 2002 September 2005 ISSN 1479-425X Editor: Amatoritsero Ede |
