Never until her making
Deity or spirit of evil
Did she mother a child like a debilitating darkness
Within her bones, elbow and foot,
Would go from sane to mad
Slowly dying on a synagogue rack
In the shadow of a valley of sackcloth
Anointed by a water bead (unmourning),
Dark veined after the first death
(there would be others trudging on her womb),
Manwaged, tapping like the holy ghost
And riddled with stones by pompous priests.
It chose this virgin mother on a drunken shore,
A riddled sea stronghold, yet the waves
Scolded—cannoned her with the tide; groped
Her soul. The tombstone told where she would
Be laid to rest, resurrected… she
Cried as her white-dressed limbs tore in a
Groping wind—the incarnate silenced her mouth
With its numberless tongues; nostrilled her
With a dull, evil sense—a thief of innocence.
In a taken body, it was a trespasser, blaspheme
In a brain. Now she is but sand grains in a
Seabed. Tarnished, dissolving under a salted veil.
The trouble with Mr. Otterhole
Between his index finger and his thumb
The crinkled paper rests; snug as a wish.
From his mouth, a clean rasping sound much
Like a spade sinking into graveled ground;
But in a glance, he takes flight, a stones throw
Down a described route: his next appearance
Perhaps in an hour; others, many have been
Glimpsed and avoided, feeling neglected.
Yet, without any warning they feel a barb in
Their pulse, and to death they do part caused
By erratic breathing; what did I do, they ask?
Draft of a funeral, circular grave, below in a hole.
Oil gray skin, clutching at dirt as a blind person
Does their cane; some neglected the roots,
The headstone tells where and when; Mr. Otterhole
With his jagged fingers hands you the paper as
Recompense: there will be others full of language,
(when? he is rather forgetful); have you left him
Nothing, not even your soul? He gropes for you
In the afterlife; four beat time for a signature.