The Hatching of the Heart. Margo Swiss

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СКАЧАТЬ rise rife

      with life, burrowing blackness

      in God’s own time to root, stem

      and shoot together.

      Nosing clean from ground’s grave

      they bear up bravely, eating earth away

      denouncing dark with a blind might

      in one last germinating gasp

      break fast into morning light.

      Living Water

      (John 4.10)

      Light rain—

      soft, light rain rains.

      Living water reigns.

      Water

      whether wanted

      in storm

      or warmed

      still we are

      watered

      drenched

      sometimes drowse

      as roots

      earthbound

      feed, so we

      night-long long

      to rise

      to rain

      to fall as

      light rain—

      soft, light rain rains.

      Living water reigns.

      Spring Buds

      In spring

      buds are sentient, multi-ocular, perceive

      light from everywhere.

      Sun’s air heats

      sheaths hour by hour

      melliferous cups, first filled,

      swells that dermis

      smaller than eyes can

      accommodate to

      burst, bloom.

      Audience

      Above all

      this green

      leaf-laden lushness

      in that tree

      I see

      from where first

      those double notes

      burst.

      The cardinal sings.

      Red-suited

      crowned

      he a-warbling rings out

      then double notes

      again.

      I am his

      only audience

      down here

      lonely for the taking

      ground bound

      listening for

      love’s call.

      I cry aloud, again

      please, again!

      He does so miraculously

      then such a wonder-

      ful life proclaim

      rejoicing.

      I stand below

      and know

      God too hears.

      Dilatation

      in summer

      this tree

      is rain-soaked:

      black bark, the smell

      of wood, lightning-burnt,

      cutaneous, so that it hurts,

      green, so that it dilates

      the eye

      in summer

      A Thin Place

      (for my mother)

      I’m just being quiet

      the flat line of your lips

      drawn over.

      just being quiet. . . .

      after years of war

      (long forgotten).

      The lash of events against

      her six-year-old scapulae—

      made to strip bare before

      hands tore flesh, a blur of

      eyes and teeth, unleashed to

      drive the point home—

      the little upon the least.

      Later, in the bath

      her welts blister and burn

      raw to the touch,

      after long hot days when bladder scalds

      from dehydration of summer sweat

      and too many tears wept

      so her eyes swelled.

      Or night commands to

      shut up your coughing:

      her throat ached, trying to,

      trying not to

      flinch СКАЧАТЬ