Harriet Levin

Embodiment of a Passage

Two wasps dash in front of an overlay of pines into this territory of stings. The chase rises inside his head, whirls, fills his ears with dissonance. There is no other sensation, only barbs, needles, and stings. He finds it impossible to move away, like reaching backward for something dropped through a meniscus—grape, coin, key, dropped incidentally, notwithstanding guilt.

His skin tingles, each muscle summoned, poised, in readiness to be transported to the city of water, fluid to be injected beneath his cracked and swollen skin. He knew it would be long in coming, the threat and promise of it hanging suspended like ripening fruit, the fruit dropping unseen. He waits with his thirst grown legion, whose strength is in its rising, the rising exhausting him.

Because there is an end. Because he is already lying horizontal. Because his thirst is unquelled. Because the scope of his body has condensed. Because his hands are indifferent, yield to nothing. Because they have been precise instruments of murder. Because they have been most violent and brutal. Because they have been restrained in the way the hands of a clock move under glass, given that they are regarded in relation to the movements of the earth.

At the end the world is no cradle, its single axis driven through the core, rotating crookedly. Double weighted, as if the sky grew dusky twice. Unlikely he would have known in broad daylight walking the particular topography of hills that take him to the very edge.


EPR #5:

Survey of Debris


© 2003 Electronic Poetry Review