First Light
(for Shara McCallum)
Dawta, the
blood that spilled bright
on blades of
sawgrass, a scent like rust
rising in
your nostrils, twisted
into your
terrible locks. I wish I could
have turned
your head away, for you not
to have
witnessed the slow slump of the body
on the earth
that greeted the thud
of the shell
when the soul becomes one
with the light
around the tamarinds.
But like
thunder on the surf whose rage
shatters
sand dollars that crumble
in our
hands, you can no longer take refuge
in the
mangroves' memory of wholeness,
your flight
into an orphaned sun.
© Geoffrey Philp 2011
No comments:
Post a Comment