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
How Can It Be I Am No Longer I
Winter was the ravaging in the scarified Ghost garden, a freak of letters crossing down a rare Path bleak with poplars. Only the yew were a crewel Of kith at the fieldstone wall, annulled As a dulcimer cinched in a green velvet sack. To be damaged is to endanger—taut as the stark Throats of castrati in their choir, lymphless & fawning & pale. The miraculous conjoining Where the beamless air harms our self & lung, Our three-chambered heart & sternum, Where two made a monstrous Braid of other, ravishing. To damage is an animal hunch & urge, thou fallen—the marvelous much Is the piece of Pleiades the underworld calls The nightsky from their mud & rime. Perennials Ghost the ground & underground the coffled Veins, an aneurism of the ice & spectacle. I would not speak again. How flinching The world will seem—in the lynch Of light as I sail home in a winter steeled For the deaths of the few loved left living I will Always love. I was a flint To bliss & barbarous, a bristling Of tracks like a starfish carved on his inner arm, A tindering of tissue, a reliquary, twinned. A singe of salt-hay shrouds the orchard-skin, That I would be—lukewarm, mammalian, even then, In winter when moss sheathes every thing alive & everything not or once alive. That I would be—dryadic, gothic, fanatic against The vanishing; I will not speak to you again.