GFT Press  A Philanthropic Literary And Art Press  

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Patrick T. Reardon

 

She Grabbed the Pigeon

 

The flesh boy, bare to the skin-slash 

through layers, blood overflows the line 

of its banks, alive—let it run; taste the 

liquid metal; taste the line of the edge—

nailed, a skin to the wall; tacked, a house 

fly to the paper: The house fly has no shout.


Herod’s dancer is as much his 

victim as the Baptizer.


Understand there is no understanding.


The flesh boy sees Post-It notes on 

every wall, telling him his empty-

ness, telling him what he feels isn’t.


Look: The creche. She and he 

hold the baby still, an embrace-lock.


He is, she tells him, mad at the world.


She chisels the stone of him and scrapes and knocks 

away what she disdains, an artist with her mallet, 

working against the grain for greater tension, and locks 

the work in a lightless room.


Let us now praise her.

That is what she wants.


In the cage, the animal paces.


She grabbed the pigeon 

and scissored off 

his feet.


Flight to death

 

 

Blood and Flesh

 

You tell me to crawl 

into the ragged slash 

in your side and pull 

the raw edges of flesh 

together to enclose me 

in the gory warmth of 

your heartbeat, like 

a babe at the breast, 

like a love flesh to 

flesh on damp sheets, 

like reentering the womb,

like surrendering to the 

formless white at the heart 

of water, air, ore, sky,

plant, sun, star, cloud,

moon, blood and flesh.