Lisa Ciccarello
January 2015



 

From & if I die, make me how you are


& her in the river
announcing the beginning,

her psalmic voice

calling out the tiny sins:

the women in the carriage,
fingers like pearl-

handled knives,
the word at their necks

that brought them forward
blind & unburiable;

the men in the bar, weak
with weapons

drinking to honor
& vengeance & unseen

ambition, their wrath
like a dominion;

the animal
abominations

the dogs maddened
into gargoyles,
the dogs

full of mercury;
& her
in the churchyard


practicing an anguish
that could wipe the letters

from their fur. & her

in his body, reciting

the old words: dwelling
in darkness, persecuted,

mine, forcing

this hateful transformation

through the open field.



 

Previously published in the chapbook & if I die, make me how you are