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OF
FISH
Man was
originally similar to another
creature - that is, to a fish.
- Anaximander
1. First Things
Earth is not
our mother
water is
and so
before birth
we are all
fish for a moment
the whitened fossil
preserved
in my body
longs yet
for the deep:
rising at night
it carries me
in search
of the first
waters of Chaos
with its winds
that won't stop
vanishing
its stones
that won't stop
unraveling
into sand
and stars
that go on
spinning
like numbers
on a number wheel
- there
where first we
turned our backs
to the sea
and singing
began our journey
2. Middle Things
As theologians
concluded
that oaks
are ancient effigies
of god
archaeologists
discovered the world
is unraveling
O gear and wheel
whose will
be done on
earth as it is
in heaven:
fish by fish
evolution advances
even as we sleep
the sad bones
slipping back
into their glove
of flesh
the mirrors
filling with water
the widowed moon
pouring milk
on the threshold
of the bridal chamber
3. Last Things
Thus saith
the prophet of fishes:
the desert
is a sky of sand
stretching beyond
the rim bones
of light
the desert is
a sea of thorns
that weep
small tears
of your blood
as you pass
people of the desert
meet fugitives
on the road
with food
people of the desert
are makers
of iron
and carve their graves
into rock
in the desert
we shall find
the pillar
of our help
in the desert
we shall know
the whirring of wings
in the desert
we shall find
petals
of what is
called fire
blooming
in god's mouth
OF HANDS
Man: a hand and a language.
- Bachelard
No stone
that does not contain
a tiny sun
no word
that does not yet
contain the sea
this hand
reaching
is my hand
this sleep
I am sleeping
will end
- thus morning and evening
the first day
* * *
The lonely spirit
struggling
to bloom into
the hollow body
Father tongue
waiting
for the word
to be
born
from the throat
the scar
on the hand
a blood mouth
struck dumb
* * *
O spider
spider
moneyspinner
drowsing
in your hammock -
ghost hand
harpstrings
a breeze
whispers
into speech:
the one word
which is smoke
without salt with
out fire
* * *
No life
this
is no life -
the word
a hermit's
lantern
flower
of light
glass petals
the hand
a water
witch's
trembling
wishbone
* * *
And blessed
be the snake's scales
whispering mantra
over loose stones
and blessed
the blood acre
and blessed
the abandoned
nest -
orphaned hand
- dry tooth dry tongue
the word's
silk wing
patched with sand
* * *
A window returns
with its light
and the hand
regains its shadow
a key
divines the lock's
grey secret
and the hinge
lifts its rust
in song -
O thorn
and nail
that are the words
I and I
But still
the fist
the stonehand
of the heart
goes on
battering away
in the mudcask
of the flesh
but still the word
goes on
wandering
lost
in the forest
of desire
ANNUNCIATION
Emptying my pockets
of sorrow
I continue
aging in reverse
a blue bottle
on the windowsill
draining the day
of light
except
for the snail's track
milky way
bridge for souls
from heaven's
caves in the air
to earth
and a thorn-
clutched path
stitched
through the woods
the wind
draped
in the trees
white ants
rolling bones
among
the spider roots
whispering -
get ready
for this life
is coming
yes it's coming --
POSTSCRIPT
This is no
longer the world
as I knew it -
thunder distant
as heaven from earth
lightning
the devil's skeleton
dancing fire
my spine
a linkchain of dice
my bones
ladder rungs
wheel spokes
scattered in the grass
a salt crucifix
pocked with rain
leaving only you and me
now angel
and even you
I see
are beginning
to have
some
trouble existing -
© T. Crunk 2007
T. Crunk is the author of Living in the Resurrection,
which was the winner of the 1994 Yale Series of Younger Poets competition,
and Parables & Resurrection, a limited
edition chapbook which is well worth hunting out.
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