Marsh Hawk Review is an online poetry journal sponsored by the Marsh Hawk Press collective. Marsh Hawk Review will appear twice a year, under the revolving editorship of collective members. Each issue will offer a selection of poems solicited by the editor, in addition to new work posted by poets in the collective.

Monday, March 7, 2011

MARK LAMOREAUX

I AM THE HALO THAT HOVERS ABOVE THE HEAD OF PAUL DELAROCHE’S “YOUNG MARTYR” LIKE A FLYING SAUCER


She, a pool of milk lapped
by God. I hover above her, a hole
through which same regards
the still milky face, unaligned
with its tilt where water has
offered her bright neck to the air,
the hand of that same invisible.
What cradles also fills lungs &
the caverns of the ears, a silence
that has spoken a few sibilant
syllables to her floating just
like a bather or a dream of travel
under bridges that join those
two lands, where we are going
& from whence we came. Those 2
lands which echo each other;
the spanner is the loop
of me, joined end to end. I am
the map of the only route, the only
available road.

I light the water like the sheen
of a little yellow moon, the arc
of a hot point traced on the eyelid,
shimmering there among the
popping cells, an orifice through
which those last breaths alight,
an invisible tunnel to the foyer under
the river. I am the clasp of alpha
& omega, a sacred last letter. O
undulant breast of fluid, O pale
diaphanous shroud as though formed
of the curled ripped canvas
of the bulbs of lilies in the river.
The last hat, I prefigure wings.
The sign of the death of
the good or merely innocent,
I am the crown of what is called &
what calls. What calls to the air,
I am the open mouth of.

Opponent of the bound X of wrists,
I float at the behest of the spread arms
in the shadows, unperturbed by
wind or shadow, I hang like the weather
over or upon her, waiting to be breathed
in by the unquickened. The second course
of the repast of rivers, through the deeps &
the shallows, shooting toward that
delta & that deeper, greener sea where I
will remain, never touching, never lifting,
never parting as the cage of flesh
begins to dance, so slowly among the slower
ocean plants, a glimmer of what we reckon
may be, but will never see except among
the wraith-glow of the strange fishes
who populate that tunnel of our last
submergence, that circular gate & the
brilliance beyond that seeps through
the hinge & forms the hoop of me.





'

No comments: