All about Carrowmore the lambs Were blotched blue, belonging. They were waiting for carnage or Snuff. This is why they are born To begin with, to end. Ruminants do not frighten At anything--gorge in the soil, butcher Noise, the mere graze of predators. All about Carrowmore The rain quells for three days. I remember how cold I was, the botched Job of traveling. And just so. Wherever I went I came with me. She buried her bone barrette In the ground's woolly shaft. A tear of her hair, an old gift To the burnt other who went First. My thick braid, my ornament-- My belonging I Remember how cold I will be.
Lucie Brock-Broido - 1956-2018
Did Not Come Back
In the roan hour between then & then again, the now, in the Babel Of a sorrel ship gone horizontal to a prow of night, the breach of owls Abducted by broad light, but blind, in the crime, the titanesque of rare Assault—we who have come back—petitioning, from the chair Electric with bad news, from the stunning, from the narrows Of an evening gall, from the mooring of an hour slanted on the follow Bow, she rose from a bed of Ireland like a flyted trout, a shiny Marvel on the sailor's deck, an apologia—divining— As once, as at a salted empire port, he washed Her fleeted body & they lied, the best of them, the cream & crush Of this, the madrigal & sacrifice of that, the best of them, The slowest velvet suffocation of their kind, did not come Whittled back by autumn, at an hour between thorn & chaff, Not come riddled with oblivion, the crossing & a shepherd's staff, The moment between Have & Shall Not Want, we who have salt Always know, that we who have—the best of us—did not come back.