DEAD HERALD INSIGNIA JOHN SWAIN

TEN PAGES PRESS

DEAD HERALD INSIGNIA by John Swain © 2011 Ten Pages Press All rights revert to author upon publication. http://tenpagespress.wordpress.com

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Some of these poems previous appeared in Symmetry Pebbles.

Expiatory Thread A simple knot frays in the rain before the world drifts into sea, the blue blooms like a daughter as she swims. The light shines on the surface like a plate of coins, I wanted to vanish into nothing and return with a house of earth. Branching roots mend the cord our birth severed, and then in them I can again be, though the day’s burden weighs like a heart without comfort, I unraveled the thread in a maze.

Law of Occupation The ladderback climbs into the sparse afternoon with bowls of molded fruit forgotten on the table. Marie undressed, I kissed her sex and bore false witness against my woman. I looked for the sea in the traction of memories, laying here and ordinary as the neighbors hammer. Sleep eases though it will not atone the waste of my inclination toward ornamental desires. I cannot look at myself, I felt revulsion and wanted an exorcism to resist and to repeal the law of occupation.

Bathed I bathed tonight to rid the abused skin of the touch of illusion. I prayed for rediscovery like a lost key to find. Night like a shell over the unfinished house, red candles would not bring her warmth here, I bored my other friends. After another sickness, I looked away and I twisted in the sheets like a line puts the sail into irons. I’ve been peeling oranges and drinking wine to manage impulses to cut off all my tying and chase and dive toward the angel voices sepulchered on the bottom.

Ally the Darkening I watched the vast thunderstorm run like a herd of wild horses in lightning across the flat red land. And then nobody could summon me unless I consented like the time the river helped to pass. The shadow of falcon translated the stele inside a pyramid after you lent me the book of the dead. I chewed upon the black wheat husk contented to become what the spirit left like ravens fed the desert prophet. I could not ally the darkening to the tree on fire, so I sought in God a language of balm. Although I still wanted to touch you with a tried faith and understanding, the power was never mine.

The Reading I was without enough time to return when a snake bit our christ mother, caracaras scavenged the opening, she touched herself with my blood and we waited together for death. A scroll emerged from the mountain who nestled me in its stream breast like I was born again. I cut at all my words like a penalty to receive love despite our confessions. The judges assembled on the earth and robed themselves in fur and gold while the guard held a pocket of stone, then I remained silent for the reading.

Dead Herald It was a false spring, we talked outside on the patio, the flowers were still locked inside the blades of grass that stained my teeth. I hated to listen to the birds and children as ghosts burrowed into smoke, I remembered celebration. I carried the branching heraldry to trace your lineage above me. I met a stranger in the pages and we planned escape from the chambers of age, but the ground hardened. I am sorry that I tied my bruise to you and the pain happened.

The Balm Arrived The balm arrived to turn the rosewater green. I walked backwards over the calendars to meet you again when the music inspired. Bells like silver pebbles call the lake to prayer as the dead withdraw from the forms into an adoration. I placed my ear against the fish ladder where we multiplied.

Bones Commingle Bones commingle under the waters the ocean swallowed after you poured a fulfilling vintage. The kingly sun made of two fires touched the waiting sand like a decree upon our paper skin. I hid my face from the world you impregnated to feed a royal child our pure fruit.

Timbre Grey semblance of dream like the pedestrian bridge where we once welcomed the thought of a real love like barges and migrations. Mist like a wedding dress pretends the innocence of the broken and molested river. I gave her vow and ring then we killed ourselves together. I heard the dirge of our marriage procession resonate on the shattered bottles. God taught me another song, though I could never master the timbre of the instrument.

The Orange Trees Alone at the ending these years brought like children raining from our marriage. The doorway opens to armies and drums, I blew the dust and crossed my arms. Away we roamed from all I know, then traveled back to crisis and thorn. The gold tender melts like the shade of orange trees lines the hilled streets of alchemical Lisbon.

BIOGRAPHY John Swain lives in Louisville, Kentucky. erbacce press recently published his fifth chapbook, Handing the Cask. His work has received nominations for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and Best of the Web.