Monday, 10 September 2007

Visible Ordination

By Erin Mouré.

Those of us who fear the dancers,
the placement of mint
over the heart
The scent of the hands after the bread is made
Those who see the clay in bricks
who see bricks in hillsides
& mint in the far hill

We, yes, who hear the mothers speaking to their children,
& the fathers to their fathers' graves,
who crave a space with no America
so that we can rest
We for whom the statue of Liberty faces inward
& claps

Our answer is the ducks calling in the rocks,
is the chicken walking behind a sweater,
is human always,
agape & easily entered,
the letter on the inside of a host of bread

Those of us who fear the dancers
know the dance is a bright window
of oxygen in the head
We who look out the window
sadly
see the dancers eat before they know they will be dancing,
on the ocean terrace of the tavern,
salt blown on their shoulders,
beneath the cedars
with their white, white inner wine

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