April 08, 2009
In sight of paradise, but out of reach of gods,
we donít blame the girls, or try to tame their
unkilled wanting, their gazing outwards,
nor stop them when they go to the highway
beneath veils of snow and passage, capes
of thick black hair across their shoulders.
Itís said they never wash their light-thieving hair ó
otter-gleam, androgyne, cedar smoke ó but instead
pour oil over each otherís scalps, work in ribbons
of warm liquid: oolichan, Oregon grape and larch.
Drawn down by comb and hand, soft ﬁngers of family
migrate bone beneath head skin, shine each strand.
What oils, what answers? Salal, hemlock or spruce?
Their eyes skirt questions and are heavy with unknown
resolution; theyíre set upon the highway, while I look
to them, gathering something sweet from the frostbitten
wild. How I long to bury my mouth against their napes
and apologise for the guillotine of our very presence.
Posted by delire at April 8, 2009 01:15 PM