Soul Cake

Wind monath, blod monath,
& enough melancholy for a soft dough,

brace of ice-spill, mace, slaughter yard, & sack.
Within: a cold sopping, a mummery spousal,

white mask in blunted pixel sleet; outside,
hungry traipsing through fallen lanes

with nothing but this swollen throat
a-begging: put your hand in my glove, love,

sing with me. Going is an ancient story.
Already day’s a mere glare, tainted;

the doves slow, fat, dun cobbles.
We know the tune. Blown-out windows.

Never mind they’ll never feed us, my Lad.
We know where the icicle is heading.

Work it all well together, and shape to the hand.
Throw in a fist of saffron for the dying sun.

Printed from Cerise Press:

Permalink URL: