Relic

Quietly, they concede,
leaving pennies

at your feet.
Clove oil at your bedside.

A constellation of symbols
etched

across the grease board
like cave scrawl.

In your palm, a withered
blade

of split stone. Fluted reeds
like hollow wings in flight.

Eyes closed, lips
unparted.

I collect you like clover
in the green fleck of my eye—

like bone chips at the altar.

images

http://blr.med.nyu.edu/content/archive/2012/spring

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s