Monday, March 1, 2010

St. David (patron of Wales, vegetarians, poets)


to say “my book” is an offense, a middle

finger straight up to the heavens that says

this here belongs to me. man. woman. us.

what? is God going to reach down and pluck

the pages out of our fingers? pull the plow



born on a mountaintop, mother screams

loud enough to reach the village below

that resembles

a collection of marbles in a fist.

I know where you come from

with that leek strung through your teeth.

the bulb dangles like a moon.

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