Poetry

All the Words for Dawn

Light-splattered, dapple-glowing, dimpling dark; midnight to morning to brightness and stark light piercing the sky, in indigo, periwinkle from blue; fuchsia, marshmallow, damask, every pink hue, to scarlet, crimson, vermilion, rusty sanguine, peaches and nectarines, bright tangerines – mandarins – to the lemonade bubbling through your straw, to primrose yellow dotted on the spring forest floor, fading into blue summer sky with the chitter-chirp of the soprano choir of worm-catching early birds, clouds flounder and it’s done, white cotton meanders past the sun – the night, for now, severed and sawn, but these were the colours behind your curtains at dawn.

de Milo

My body is a temple
torn from its pillars,
by design it feels
weathered,
but not by age
or time. There is
a difference in the
way a child plays
in the sand: with
creases and crinkles, with
a body that has
decided, cartwheels
are the most effective form
of transport this week.
Clearly, there is a way
to be carefree, without
being free of care;
see god, without the temple
falling down.
A string of pearls
compacted at the navel
of a young Venus;
her hand touches temples
blessed with before;
before living became
delicate and dutiful,
something to be done
after sanding down edges,
sharp lines.