by The Cowl Editor on October 21, 2021
Poetry
by Fiona Clarke ’23
The burning sun runs its blazing hands along the wildcat,
The ocean, upsets it, and offers a remedy then.
Take and dissolve beneath your tongue—How often?—
As often as you need—For how long?—
Until you, yourself, dissolve.
How can there still be water?
For crying out loud there is a cure,
But for silent mortal flesh, there is only a pillar of cloud before me
And a pillar of salt behind me,
And a gryphon in the bed beside me.
Oh, no doubt, one of the damnable Irish men behind me,
Who saved up all his laughter for his last day,
And his tears for its either-night—
No doubt he can explain this well.
And listen, for in answer to my shoddy prayers,
A knock-off Solomon speaks, and
Out of the mouths of the depraved, beloved,
Ramshackle sense shall come forth.
I will ask you, then
“Were you in the swim last night?”
I could have sworn I saw you balanced on one hand
On the banks of the river, and on the ties of the railroad—
But then, love and a hole in the earth
Sometimes run all together.
Today I stand transfixed where the orange trees grew,
For when I went outside to look at the stars,
I saw a cleft in the chin of the earth
That I had not seen before,
And I saw the rain pouring out its heart
Where I used to pour out mine like water,
And now the sea is full.
Today I stand transfixed where the orange trees grew,
And look and see: every surface is
One face shifting into another.