At The Foot of The Southern Cross: Seraph Lupus by Richard PaezAt The Foot of The Southern Cross: Seraph Lupus
{for those sacrificed to the Centaurs}
Just when we thought she would leave
as quietly as she came
April erupts –
forgiving no one their trespasses,
forgoing no one their shame.
This year, Spring will have her vengeance
and April, her mild daughter,
plays a different game
by different rules:
there will be no flowers,
no wreaths –
only graves upturned
by the great deluge.
(No memorials, only showers
for the chimeras and the wolves –
the childhood angels hereby slaughtered.)
Yet we return to these images
year after year
sublimated,
verse after verse
submerged:
the lightning and the storm,
the flood and her aftermath:
menarche and afterbirth –
the beat and the tide,
the swamp amniotic
and the ocean, the tempest,
the overwhelming flow
the flow that contains us,
that comprises us,
that washes us away.
Here, where new fictions erupted,
were eviscerated, executed:
here dead men wash ashore
their rotten mouths awash
with false prophesies,
Satan consumes his own sword
– another failed attempt
to skirt the wrath of god,
and the hypocrites in full attendance
gorge themselves again
at the feet of another antichrist.
Yet the torrent unleashed cannot dislodge
the possum sitting in her tree
or quench the thirst
of the burning ones crying
“Holy, holy, holy
He who was and is and is to come”
“And the foundations of the thresholds shook at the voice of Him who called, and the house was filled with smoke. And I said: Woe is me! For I am lost; for I am a man with unclean lips, and I dwell in the midst of a people of unclean lips; for my eyes have seen.”
Yes,
my eyes have seen.
My eyes have seen.
My eyes have seen.
05/06/2010 Author's Note: That quote is from Isaiah 6: 1-7
Posted on 05/06/2010 Copyright © 2025 Richard Paez
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