Up from cradle, woman wife they striding; slower
to firm, prime gone horn down they blowing.
Exchange their stock in trade,
house maid their quick relief ̶ plump up that résumé
like pillow! ̶ some kind of first snip Chief in command
assuming.
I sing and dust and walk around the room talking
to the door knob. Where else could they put it, this in
significance? over done fall off lips left still rippling.
Matrons of needles thread bare pointing ̶ Look the devil
there! ̶ knit veins enchant clap start hell furnacing.
Prayer
lets us heal what needs flesh needs to be prepared for.
Like termite bite so hard to tell where blade tip ends
faith leak begins. And, hear this, elsewhere the behead
making a come back.
Lord of lords! but look how long, child after child, I
waiting for deliverance.
Move closer
to me, spread on this altar. Take my days, on my side
fill my nights dwell deep not flame out slide away.
-W.W.
PRESENT TENSE SUBJUNCTIVE MOOD
HORSE SENSE
Into the bush on a bronco
and out of the bush on one half-
tamed but willing to listen less
to the stings of your kicks and whips
than to the rhythm of your blood
saddled about their memory, now
revised, grooved into his hide.
Not to be ruled, no transitive
verb, no name doing this to that,
but, in a cage, something like smoke
between its window-bars sliding
towards the fenceless zone of breath's
resistance-surrender-transcendence,
triumph of deténte to no one's.
(from "A December Snail" © by Brian Chan)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 