Monday, April 7, 2014

poem || Laura Carter

A Man Loves Anchors

& pale anchorites—
falls into a fire—
eats from his own hands
& hunts into a body for answers—a culture or
                                                            this reason zig-zagging
                                    into logic’s
                                    dream of a world
                                    as a picture of
                                    a technological obeisance
                                                thicket of knife & ambiguity, scarf of red
a day you turned twenty-one, a day you took a drink from water of totem,
preclusion of a vote or a temple, metonymy’s silk

slowing in world’s body—
your body dying between branches, making difficile from exigency

in crimson & wound (a wound is a fault, a line, a limit) & in each moon a begin
that is known as a waking in cultures such—
            death of Thebes
                                    you develop for free—
                                                            lambs study comets & gymnastics—
you say:
a secret is not you’re sweating & your visceral body
is a heritage of marriage & mouse—
                        a deck of nines a table of one

                        & you are leaning across miniature horizons & you
procedure out into a decade of nineteen & Thumbelina’s temples—

in this radiant alum of night your early teeth will fall from your mouth
remainder a womb
but not without its price—
you wear sixteen with opera in my feet & slump into thick
arising to turn lust to life—

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