when we have not ever, wholly,
turned our sacred eye to the haven,
the seamstress with her quick mouth
can heal us before we know
we are hurt. a thread
so tender behind us that
a thing, a sticky nod, any
ion could surprise us.

as a stillness
in the waiting, an arm
across the shoulder; needle-
eye spindle & honest
maneuver towards the center;
still the city by the water,
its solemn buoyed head

& the urge we have to move the body
forward along the line,
to have the body completed.
to fuck, the desire
& its full belly, lung.
making us what ever, finite,
in the decision to be touched
out side of our air,
where i feel you drop off, &
following the blood
with the stitch, stitch, stitch
inside the sallow womb: try
to bring you back to me, then.
become cursory;
a current in the neuron
falls a hand on the holy hip,
the breast of the bird.

10/26/2002

Posted on 10/29/2002
Copyright © 2024 Marina Dawn