Nascita della Vergine

Hooded eyes as if to seize the crown;
apprehension welded into suavity
monitoring the temperate profile, all
those goblets of the past, peremptory
in animation of her throat. Push
is the one commandment, hankering
for a return to soft sands, in an hour's
shift of secrecy. This room hesitates
to insult, is coaggrandized by a split.
She'll hear the cord, the pacey
end of it. A chip of intelligence
sours his tea, the fancy, partycoloured
weightlessness of office, becalming
a martial arsonist, subpoenaed friend
grazed by choke-manoeuvres, home
ragamuffins, the lithest hands around.
Reading out her sobs, naked, lies
an abundancy of solar aptitude. You
guess my smothered age, uptight
the moment evens out a human right.

Sarah Law | Mudlark No. 14
Contents | Madonna del Rosario