| What is the wild
silken scent of him?
Musk.
Contrast the young virgin soldier boy from Asia.
Thingy was a Muskox (That's what we named him.)
he had white beard
heart-shaped nose, black felt body. We left him in the old
home.
How does his
calf
survive the subzero temperatures? Mystery. Unanswered white
star stone.
The nameless white soap
cat
has melted to a nubbin.
It rains and rains.
Do what? Shall I
Draw a rainhouse about me with blue crayons the way we children
drew khaki blankets about our parents' deskhole during
war?
Draw a pastel house
smudge yourself
rose
an alpen glow
in the windows.
Drag the whole sorrowful rainforest after you
into the next room
like a child his
tent blanket. One night he wakes wet & goes to the doctor
to find out what's wrong.
It could shelter or suffocate
You cannot blink it all gone.
Like desire of an unknown person. But it won't be, like
Thingy the muskox gone.
The bloodshot eye of the child on horse
the rapt, ravished eye
the pure heart.
Impetuous
angular
she knows how to really lift the song off the page.
What do you think I am
speaking
Russian?
I am speaking
from the heart
Magyar eyes burning with salt.
It runs in the family:
What it takes to be him:
a white mane, a range of sharp mink mind.
Blood to blood ashes to ashes will come soon enough
the wild.
No mollycoddling him Riveting the
voicing.
Many come from Moscow
onto the stage,
many from New York.
The silky pills
the brilliant mind
O thingy thou must not go blind.
A spiritual child
making the most of things.
The river flows you
are on a journey bulleted to the end.
Ratcheted up
points against
darkness with
a machete.
We'll divide
night
into two stern watches:
one for the unloosing
one
the bind.
People go away for travels
my own mother
did
I could see her retreating
down the tunnel
of the hospital corridor
a train
I cried after
in my dreams.
I thought I had more on my hands
but only one or two
willow slender
steel-strong poems come.
Age is the voice which calls forth the darker songs. Age
is the letter opener which slits them open:
the contents spill like first orgasm.
Neither He nor his amazing coat is extinct
Thought to have crossed the Bering Strait 90,000 years ago
to Canada
my
adopted home.
Adopted
love.
Adopted emotion.
Feeds on tundra that cloudlike mass of dust
nebula
a cluster of stars.
Friend to the Inuit.
Sole natural predator arctic wolves.
He is not wolfen.
(Nor are you
astouncing
virgin soldier boy.)
Miniaturized
with astounding horns
in my dream
to
yoke darkness
to
calm down.
Virgin boys
soldiers
obedient as nuns
stun
come to me in dream
those dangerous ones
Gentle as lilies?
I knew a razoring child in our family
& could not believe she drew blood red as the ruby.
Disturbed by low-flying aircraft or by humans on foot, muskoxen
first stand their ground in a defensive ring and only when
pressed closely do they stampede away from danger.
Omingmak:
with skin
like a beard.
Before their first shave, how do these boys handle fire?
They take it & burn. What else?
Gather it like flowers
in their palms?
Throw it back
burning water
to the ocean?
The boy’s not carved of soapstone.
Like the muskoxen
soft silky fur protects him
his most dangerous assailant
(the mosquito) of love for the boy, of wing for the beast
can bring him down.
The
sound of bulls
colliding
in rut season
the
bosses taking full impact can
be heard for a mile if the air is clear, calm
but
the
soldier boy
like the muskoxen his
large coat made him look bigger
braver
than he was.
Shawls
are woven & baby clothing of muskox yarn. The virginal
boy however, like the razoring child
is
not heard by any but his mother, untranslatable his brother
in an arctic circle of white moon. |
