Hush, I smell the springtime dogs approaching
And hear the ladies of their house, wrapping daughters'
Braids with ribbons, humming softly on the steps.
They trail down to you and me, two foxes gazing.
But don't fear little one, red and barely moving;
We'll dye our tails the color of fog, then merge with mist.
While all about us, shouting, drooling, the springtime dogs
Will hunt lost scents for masters returning discontented
(Without a me, without a you) to ladies of their house,
Slicing bloody breasts, and washing in their dew.
We sang of a dawn unslept,
Fleshed again to soothe the sands
With bright balms as it crept
Through the sieve of our sisters' hands.
Lock away your needles, the grief,
These half truths can eclipse the moon.
History is the oldest thief,
A marvel may unravel soon.
Mutter what forgets.
Take me to the orchard.
I will charm the roots
With bare and vaulted feet
Where our wild childhoods
Have grown and splintered.
Their laughter still presses
Hard against my regret.
Take your hand from the windowpane.
Spring must come
With all her terrible flowers.
Say to me fiercely,
Huntress of nerves,
You too hunger
For a language that serves.
Let this hope forge hope
And blend with the rage
In the breasts of felons
As they grasp at their cage.
Share with us fiercely
Those moments that cross
The cheers at your scaffold
With the axe and the loss.
Nathan Woods, editor/overlord