2002 Helyn Davenport.  All rights reserved.


Do not pity the angel who sits at the right hand
these are her fires, this is her destiny. She opens
a green mouth sewn together by a cord of men,
tiny pouch, dragon skin. Stitch of a word---
I am. I am. And she is
everything and the absence of all
you have believed a woman to be
and in this utterance, red speech
she is consumed. Dies to be born
and becomes like my love,
a tiny stone in flesh of a peach.
One tree. A hundred tongues
gathering root, living without god or song.

Here is my offering,
the place where a river flows sweet.
Furrow the ground with a hand, gather my seed.
Green will open her leaf in the dark call of night,
soft words of rain. Stone, root, tree.

2002 T.E. Ballard.  All rights reserved. 


Featured Poetry

Letter in Green
Principles of Bone
The Butcher's Daughter
The Uncertainty of Altars
Offspring; A Local Art Show
Why Jonah's Wife Was Never Found
Death, Stone and a Woman Named Virginia Woolf

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