Today's poem is by Shelley Puhak
The Last Meeting, along the Path to Arthur's Grave
Here grass matted means
a deer path, white tufts in underbrush
mean a doe dozed last night, her ears like satellites,
swiveling. Like any prey. Like us,
soon off to a hermitage, a convent.
Cowardly or clear-sighted, we'll hedge our bets
in hairshirts, woolen robes, woolen
underpants. We'll sail silent corridors, praying
for early November snow
remnants of stars wrung soft,
dawn's white lint. A prioress
will show us how God lives
in the lens: a neuron is webbed same as a nebula,
same as a snowflake. How the cuckold
forgets the same as the cunt.
How we are never more alone
than in love. We'll illuminate manuscripts
with sketches of spiral galaxies discs
of light, bulging, luminescent breasts.
Darling, darling, who will forgive
that once we expected to suckle?
Here his headstone. Under stars beating
dawn back. Among these vegetative beds, no,
beds of vegetation. Next to a doe's skull,
her eye socket cracked.
Copyright © 2014 Shelley Puhak All rights reserved
from Guinevere in Baltimore
The Waywiser Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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