Sorrowland
"Where words leave off, music begins."
— Heinrich Heine
I wear the farmhouse, a thorn crown set ablaze
with notes and peacocks, bone and gristle.
Fear has no name, not in the halls of officers.
Their children set pace, count the rows of
country homes where women tumble on banisters,
the tricky ankle's turn.
I have no words for them.
Puberty turns a boy into a man - but what ceremony
is his? The trousers and blade to neck, careful shave taught
by stern fathers.
Looking in, a boy sees the man with the new mom,
her noises not unlike the peacocks
in the yard
on summer nights.
Girls are in the bloom. How their yellow hair shines, wrapped
in blizzards and soot. To become a woman, what ceremony
will do them good :
forced believers cradling rabbit's foot.
And wonder,
the stinking promiser
will come into the house
now
that they inhabit.
I wear words about us, you know,
the spinning of gold
into straw by small hands. Only,
songs begin in his hold, the demon’s throat,
pushing out life
where poetry's dead lips
sealed for good.
