Lorraine Capparell  © 2007 All Rights Reserved

Self Portrait as Stitching a Summer Body, Philomela

The striking thread carries so many portals, occlusions.
Spoken silk. Crinoline. Fragments colliding against

what cannot stitch a true skin: skink smoldering under leaf rind,
pretty cigarette starring your lungs, wasp thumb-deep in the heart

of a pomegranate, things that flew, bruise, fly. All of these,
observations that donít touch you.

Instead you knit and stitch, prick your thumb and forefinger
until they turn rosebud.

Even now you are adorning your quilt with the best lilies.
Lilies that, never knowing the dirt by feel, learn to root in the wind.

***

 

Excalibur


I called you deferred carrion, face drugged under my boot.

I called you dirty mirabilis, tender conscription of winter.

I called you my doped up rosary, chest cut up by prayer.

But I know you as I take my hand to you, pull you out of the impenetrable.

We take the dirtiest bird-wings to us, wash them in rosewater,

plant them in each otherís bodies, fly.

We impale dying horses to put life back in their throats.

We cause to cause our own redemptions. We are myth to each other,

which is nothing like destiny.

Sara Henning
Copyright © 2007

 

Sara Henning lives in Athens, GA, and is currently completing an MFA in poetry from George Mason University. She has poems published or forthcoming in Verse, the Bitter Oleander, Fence, Slope, and 3rd Muse, among others. She has worked for both Verse and Phoebe. She is an avid fan of Rumi, Anne Carson, and candlelight.


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