CRY UNTO COUNTRY
Mind as conflagration,
mind as a canting floor—
not as in
nation’s
raw red
reward—
rather some
other mare’s
lore—plays up a
role. Apply us a
poultice of pulped bills
(cut, I bleed). Poll’s pupil, of
this sea be fealty’s fashion. I
obey, finish a last shift, see a
say-sickness, to swab
abscess, ways to skin
late cataplasm,
a meat past call.
Spend us
sends up
baubles, sad
baud, bless a
bit per second,
bent crop dies,
honored
horde. On
a bruising
in us I brag
as big ruin—
In America
I can re-aim.
Credit
From Stet by Dora Malech. Copyright © 2018 by Princeton University Press. Reprinted by permission of Princeton University Press.
Date Published
10/01/2018