When Flowers Were I n Bloom

When Flowers Were I n Bloom


The Third Being

This one was born in a river,
wrenched from the warm liquid
of a mother’s womb --
brought forth from water to water
and lifted to light by the hand of God ...

Listen --
day flees the wild country,
scurries beyond the belly of the Spirit
and abides in the Mansion of Infinite rooms.
Earth is void of light.
Dogs cower from the dark.
He knocks at my door.
Should I let him in to sup?
Who is this third being --
this colossal weight that tickles my sacs
and strokes my loins?

She waits in the kitchen.
Her finite hovel hurtles --
To the cesspool at the end of creation.
You take her.
Dance a mad tango.
In your fisted bones, a bushel of hair --
ruby beads --
strands of a hundred centuries.
And on your lips,
the stain of the Virgin Mary.
And in your groin,
the sting of Jezebel.

Why do you do this?
There is no honor in it.
Why do you allow this?
There is no honor in it.
Grandfather --
who is this third being
that stalks the night?

In my mortal heart,
three men fight;
in the broth of my bowels,
one butchered boy.

Did not my Old Man die for you?
His scream transfigured Golgotha.
Why, then,
why, then, this weight,
this third being

-- these strands of a hundred centuries.

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