O poetry I was young when you took me
There
in the workshop of cloth and tapestries
Cloaks
and ponchos there on the straw
Strewn
floor you shut my mouth like dawn
Until
all the other voices of Good Friday shut
Their
fucking mouths too face down on the loom
Vomit
and blood in the threads and shuttle
O
poetry you took my breath and my life
O
poetry you took my soul and left me
Nothing
but ribs and a sucking chest wound
O
poetry you said I’d learn to shoot
At
someone who outdrew me you said
I’d
learn to kiss the arrow’s tip and cut dawn
Clean
in two but here I am all empty handed
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