The Scouring, Spring
(after "The Pruned Tree" by Howard Moss)
Forgetting in its fibers that it ever cleaved to something stained -
that lingered a moment, a blurred mouth - loss
works its elegance in me, cut by cut by cut.
The scarified face is art; so is the anorexic's chilling arm.
tasting in itself the deep ebb of its waters, the reductive landscape
stirs, looks cleanly, for clean things.
It blesses me with line and value, narrow grace.
Who would not lose more for this slim nodding shadow?
What could any hands do but skim over the length of this fineness?
Each piece of me echoes each other piece.
The clock-eyes, the hard click, the buzzing things
who spun their papered wings, ticked their green legs in an economy of seconds --
I used to know their bodies' sting against my softness. Now
they all sound off against my hip like a clear bell.
Hard and bright as the rains of insects
each shed leaf's a votress of that shape. Each loss preserves it.
In some empty world there is room for abundance.
Here, I'd rather things grew soft against my shadow, the bone-sharp planes
that glowered betweeen my old tissues. Everyone is baffled -
pale, heavy with worship.
Now there are so many places for ornaments -
one by one, hot jewels, folded coals,
every hinged wing scours some last dead place away.
Life itches in me, stretching its heat so fast
over these clean, proud bones.
back to the index
