[b](TRIPTYCH 3)[/b]

[b]I. CHILD[/b]

Flesh trophy
For so many nights, I breathed out your name
I breathed out life, and you flew out on the slide…

Now you’re here
like an oxcart is here – plumped with harvest
and, before you focus, I wrap
the smoky cloak around me.
We go forth, planting crucifixes in the neighborhood, you and I –
we trade stares. Your eyes immense and bold
and your skin a miracle of profit and galvanism
but the measures of doubt you foment in me,
oh, I take them like cake
and lick the umbilicus for the blessings…

Build you up – I am the waterwheel
Bearer of casks and night tidings
The flowering you’ve brought to this Garden is my every hope
and convinces me of the secret you’ll be hiding

Dress you down – I am the cannibal
Performer of ritual and drag dressings
I’ll paint you proud of the bloodsong in your veins
but the melody will have you confessing

Now, listen close, my little spawn
to all that I may say
before I package,
lick you thin
and mail you away

[b]II. A DEAD MAP[/b]

There is the map
There is the tower where my fraudulent claims were called on
to be rent apart by kings and their sycophants and then
thrust out the open windows

I know very little beyond that,
beyond the dead map

There is the name that is always on the tip of my tongue
that pounds through the waves at high tides
and sings through the suns

There is the silhouette of a woman upon a cross
with her legs exquisitely matched and
my heart in a kindergarten chair
beneath her

I know very little beyond that,
those nails and those suns

There is a crying out in the backwater tombs in
the middle of the night, from the whippoorwill haunts –
a craven, bewildered shrieking that strikes V’s of birdflight
from the treelines out into the skies

I know the sound of my little boy dying
for his voice is like mine

…but I know very little beyond that


The cycle begins with the red seeds of warfare
the apostles and their blankets wet with dew
in the Garden where he made his peace
and they made him stew

The cycle begins
with the aspect of wasps taut with no-mind eyes
running with dust up the chimneys in the boroughs
where the maids ladle cream and
rub salt into their thighs

The cycle begins
with the essence of sanctuary bought by a traveler for a song
it costs ten years of hard labor to you or I and our delusions
but for a swallow-hearted Orpheus and his three-dollar bills
it doesn’t take that long

The cycle begins with the unfolding of the ocean
each day of our love with the dawn
comes a hurricane to empty it of baleen and our briny transfixions
then we’ll passover to you
what cards we’ve been drawn

by Barclay Kenyon (c)2003
([email]btkiv [at] hotmail [dot] com[/email])

[b]Author’s Note[/b] Barclay Kenyon is a psychiatric worker and poet who lives by the water.

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