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At The Red Throat
By Paul Cameron Brown
In youth, Death was
a puny boy possessing but
wormy hands & fleshless fingers
as in Witch Hazel
or Scrooge's Future Ghost
- that insipid Evil One
Hansel so easily outwitted
in a gingerbread house.
Time brought increased notoriety.
Saucy times with a soupçon of respect
for the artful dodger.
Givens change, an armful of
orange lilies, limp & loathsome,
on a tombstone door
before trumpets of rain.
Graven images. Lifeless stone.
Death became stone.
Stone empty. The maggot emptiness
burrowing into chiselled easel and
the stone-cutter's savage magic.
Just a bitty stone
to herald a passing.
Night-jars.
Old straw-chairs with
a broom pronouncing
the wall base with its touch empty,
the empress of bandages
leaning to rags
On table scraps,
sorry gloom of an old building
by a pickled lake
leaking into ebb twilight.
The coronation of the nightmare,
the moon with her billowing robes and withered spoon
unfolding midstream ...
la cauchemar ou
dénudée soirée
to discover, with wonder, ices with sherbet
reek like nightsweats;
a windsail of pooled light
thru puddles of trees.
Brackish backwater -
thoughts of black ice
and huddled masses of silver
breaking thru the sun's
winter curtain as erupting coins.
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