Cross of Rust
Your sigh, a flaming breath of ice,
I bring my visible sword,
I stab you in the heart,
your breath fades slowly:
the metal sword sink deeper,
It becomes a cross of rust.
My rusty cross-shaped sword
Creates a hole inside you.
You become a vessel in which I empty myself
You become a pot which I feel obliged to fill up.
You hang from my cross of rust, and I
Dip you in a liquid milk whiteness.
You drip, drip, drip,
I depose you off my cross of rust, and it
a shade of virgin vermillion
On royal texts and rugs.
Your temple breaks with this rape;
The son of God comes out of you,
Your son, worked only with wood;
A carpenter, unlike his father.
For thirty years, he built, until,
Baptized in the sweet water of The River Jordan,
He was born again, but to a doom,
For the River Jordan flows into
The Dead Sea.
Water dripped from his hair
And his crucifix was re-born as well.
In humility, he carried the cross
The wood that served him for thirty odd years
Betrayed him, rusting with his vermillion blood.
The son of God suffered the immutable
Fate of family.
As you stood beneath him,
He, hanging from the cross of rust,
shouted to his absent father,
Until death and you—
Until you and death
deposed him off my cross of rust.
He stained you with drops of virgin vermillion.
The Great Cedar Root
The great cedar root stings as
I try to let go.
It latches on to me
With its yellow mould;
Infects me with its
But the night sky holds my dream;
distant, silent, past, dead, present, glowing, shining,
fading behind the glow of the day.
The cedar root stings and
I’d rather be a leaf blown by the indecisive wind
than be a part of a deep, entrenched root,
Always as close to the end
As to the beginning.
It stings again:
I’d rather be Icarus,
Flying with wax-glued feathers,
Diving, drowning like an earthly sun,
But I’ve a wanton cedar as parent.
From the root springs my crucifix.
I hang, father oblivious, uncaring
Of my pains; Mother
crying, weeping in shades of black
watering soon-to-be Lilacs,
which will bring me back again as
A Father, a great cedar root.
As I drip, the people around me drink,
Nails digging in; see the garden beneath my body.
Grapevines colour it purple, and if I
Dive in its wine I can
Turn weeping into songs Orpheus sung,
Swaying the cedar with sweet heathen reverberations
On the surface of lilac wine.
But I’ve a wanton cedar as parent;
And Mother cries me to the same life again.