My body, this river



Axes open wombs.

Carpenter, woodpecker fill up the holes.


Chamber. Nest.


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.


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Sentinel Poetry #34

ONLINE MAGAZINE MONTHLY ...since December 2002

September 2005  ISSN 1479-425X

Editor: Amatoritsero Ede