Wednesday, 23 April 2014

Joanna the Mad

You’d been purification after all that mucus-

dressed in white and pale blue I still don’t know
if you were the Madonna or Pinocchio’s Blue-haired Fairy.

The salt on the ground, the ice melting, you lying in wait
tearing you soul with bites
tying your hair with nettles.

You bathed in idolatry smiling, thinking

maybe I’ll get somewhere at the end of this tempest, maybe
they’ll blow their trumpets at my return, salutes after the battle, horn in the hand and sung out hymn.

You kept combing your hair with feathers and picked up the leftovers. I would talk and ask what will
            become of the observants?
Your answer He will certainly be unduly occupied. Call the maid, I need more milk for soaking.

Then you would lay down, in silence. What
a marvel your puzzled eyes buried in cotton.

I dreamt of you wandering downstream. I screamed your name but
you didn’t stop and I was afraid to lose you until
I saw a light.

It’s me, I’m back whispered a voice.