“I charge you, O daughters of Jerusalem, if ye find
my beloved, that ye tell him that I am sick of love”
He might sleep like a bear hunting salmon, all
patience and muscled determination, and you
may bank on the promise of breakfast. His
sternum is a banquet table broad enough
for armies. His bones you’ll want to get at. All this
gathering and stitching you’ve worked for along the
hem of the field where you watched a lone blue
heron watch you sideways, slowly mark your sewing
each day, rotating this royal tunnel of vision, these
concentric coins of seeing. And you will love him
the way space wants to close around a shape.
You won’t be able to help it after all this
gathering and stitching along the hem of
the field. You are clever enough, with your
slow gaze that might break into a thousand rapid
directions of flight. You are strong enough to
survive it though your hollow bones will be crushed
by the staying. You’ll not relish being bruised as if
you were real, as if you were every other
living thing. Like the fish that he’ll tear from the
river. Turn it over and it’s an invocation. Turn it
over and it looks likes a trap. Turn it over and
find it breathless in its need. Turn it over and
know how it feeds you. Turn it over and it is
procreation, glinting in the slant of autumn light.
Turn it over and it will knock you out of your
writing brain and back down into your cunt.
Which is your heavy handed coin and no one
else’s. Your existence has always been seed.
You have sewn every bit, spent every possible
cent. And now you, poor soul, are spent.