She Watches from Afar

 

“Distrust the maker, oh first direction.
It seeks only to confound flight
Of the sparrow and the thrush—
What use have regal wingtips
For letters of four and five?”
So it was once written
In gold-leafed pages upon the mind:
Some called them memories.

No name, no language they remember,
Letters sealed with tongues of white and grey
Matter, an accumulation across centuries.
Letters left at the doorstep
Of ambition: Did not a single stone
Give birth to the tower at Babel?
Letters cast off upon white-sailed ships,
Servants to the irrationality of the wind—
Have they tried speech?
Letters docked at black harbors,
Black nights,
Endless in ink, waiting to be read.

Criminal Chance

 

He misplaced first constellation in the womb
Of a woman. Her name was ‘mother’.
What did a word mean?
They shared a single probability
A double helix,
The anatomical echo of her degradation imprinted
In bases of four. He would run, but where to?
The road inside his home led
Back to itself: evergreen, ornamented
With the carcass of Christmas bottles and disallowance,
Misfortune grown old but sold young. He pursued
A second path, sought past insistence contours
Of magic and metal—surely their dances disallowed
The alliteration of feeling.

 

Inspired by Adrian Raine’s The Anatomy of Violence