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
Soon the electrical wires will grow heavy under the snow. I am thinking of fire of the possibility of fire & then moving Across America in a car with a powder blue dashboard, Moving to country music & the heart Is torn a little more because the song says the truth. Because in the thirty-six things that can happen To people, men & women, women & women, Men & men, in all these things the soul is bound To be broken somewhere along the line, That clove-scented, air-colored wanderer blushing With no memory, no inkling & then proceeds Across America In the sap green of the tropics, Toward the cadmium of a bitter sunrise to a new age, At the white impossible ice hour, starving, Past the electric blue of the rivers melting down, Above the nude, snuff, terra cotta, maybe fire, Over the tiny fragile mound of finger bones Of an Indian who died standing up, Through the heliotrope of a song about the sunset, To live the thirty-six things & never comes home.