Newly beguiled, newly snagged
and reeled, I lie
in the jade grass and suffer.
An amulet of loss, a talisman
of lies, I suffer
in the valley where gnats
jewel the air. In my belly
the iridescent flies glisten.Once I swam, blue muscle
of the river. Star glitter
in the shallows, Bishop
of Currents and suppliant
to Our Lady of Storm,
I was hymn and crystal, tongue
of fast channels, invincible
in a zodiac of gall moss
and driftwood. I was a comet
burning and settled
beside the mute asters where
the rubythroats in Druid
regalia hover after red
pollen. I embraced all
with a sacrificial quiver.Soon I will be beheaded,
a slit saint, my milt
and viscera greasing newsprint,
my eye eclipsed with a brittle
lid, armor singed in
the black skillet, yet
the glib gill persists. One
heartbeat. None. The dirge
of silence, and after repast
the ladder that shapes me
will be lifted and restored
to the river, a gift
for a gift. I will be
a story, a prayer for the Angel
of Forgetting, and who will
climb my trellis in the instant
of transfiguration
to the body of light? When
I am pure vehicle, who will
ascend in innocent
appetite, resolved to shine
as the angler's idol,
rune, and wild eye of joy?
R. T. Smith
Copyright © 1996 by R. T. Smith.
Trespasser
Louisiana State University Press
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission.