I will not learn the language

of his mother,

hanging linen. close above the dust

her stark and scattered children

grin & show their teeth

she bends and lifts.

This woman understands

the reliability of matter, (of motion)?

the consistency of motion,

the grace within a child’s thighs

separated by a sheet.

A clean bed; what I wanted

But I am a child

the very same, who ran

and loved the running

body bathed in dirt and light upon my feet.

Atalanta, you remember,

you do not race to catch

but await at the finish

to harvest what I hold

I hold nothing now.

The Russian boy.  he died

they all join the army there, I’ve heard

and so he goes, and dies, and others

collapsing in the years behind

like falcons to the falconer

(he called me and I did not come)

what would you give?

your celibacy?  your hands?

there was a time for that

I lay

half-open

half-lit

your arms

they closed beside me

gave you a pomegranate dried

each autumn

with you I starved

peeled each apple bare

in silence

fed them to you.

A crimson thread

Carry me

O desert fathers

(bare children)

on your back

with your feet —

I have tried myself to go

but fail.  Take

honeycomb with my honey

wine with my milk

with you I starve, in orthodox

my desert turns to mountains

then to gold

I have seen no pillar on which to stand

How long did you Antony?

And how many voices did you hear?

I am but one of these dear saint

An old woman

begging pennies

An echo in a cave

your sacrifice.

He called me and I did not come

peel each apple bare

I wait for you.

bells ringing only tell time

wandering alone in the streets

muttering and scrawling on the page

supplication

for my clothes

my weight, my smell

my hair

I remember a small church

candles like every candle I have tried to write

and all to light your face

I laid down and breathing

unmet by the kisses of your mouth

you promised me.

##

by Shannon Nissa Bailey Powers

(from white note papers)