My body, this river
Axes open wombs.
Carpenter, woodpecker fill up the holes.
I lie like the dry bed of the river,
washed, squeezed, riversand.
I am the bed, the log. I am the stone.
The river is the embalmer's hands:
cut me, wash me and let me hang out, dry.
The carpenter's hand is a ruler, a chisel:
measure my bed
earth-end to the bend of my shoulder.
seal the chamber of rest,
drive nails of guilt.
Christ like I.
Sentinel Poetry #34
ONLINE MAGAZINE MONTHLY ...since December 2002
September 2005 ISSN 1479-425X
Editor: Amatoritsero Ede