The sand would scrape itself
I heard it whisper
as i breached the whitewashed torrent
with my chest
emerging forth everclear and green
drench-dripping in the first
hungry for the textures
of earth and flesh
the mortal opacity.
I carved a monument, an easel.
Then portrayed a pastoral.
I will try to find you there again
around and behind every root and knoll
into the craters of every erosion and explosion
the furthest inherent peripherals.
The wind separates my limbs, it tousles
the hair of the soldiering trees
I lie on my back and shape cloudshapes
around your name
I lie here barren in your memory.
Spinning under the moon, hand in hand
with the animals
into the torn lace outskirts of evenings
the blue the pale the pagan
suckling an entirely different oxygen
and I saw you there
your arms flung open
the mouth of churches
I will press your flowers between the pages of a book.
I will press your book between the eaves of a shelf.
I will press your shelf into a web-haunted corner
and in the vacant room I will try to remember.
I will walk barefoot
down garde npath
I will harbor a love
of stain-glassed windows
and gasoline rainbows
all the jagged mathematics
of broken sea-glass
the multiplicity of prisms.
I will cultivate flowerbeds
into festering expulsions of tenderness
cupping in bowls their resins
until I arrive, trembling, blood-ready
for the slaughter
— by Joseph Milford
Copyright© 2011 by Joseph Milford. All Rights Reserved.
p class=”MsoNormal” style=”margin: 0in 0in 0pt;”>Joseph V. Milford is a Professor of English at Georgia Military College south of Atlanta. His first book, Cracked Altimeter, was published in 2010. He is the host of the weekly The Joe Milford Poetry Show, which he maintains with his wife, Chenelle. He also edits the literary journal Scythe with his wife from their shack in rural Georgia. Recently, some bleach replicated the Shroud of Turin on his favorite black shirt, but he does not believe in E-Bay.