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© 2002 Helyn Davenport.
All rights reserved.
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Communion
Do not pity the angel who
sits at the right hand
these are her fires, this is her destiny. She opens
a green mouth sewn together by a cord of men,
tiny pouch, dragon skin. Stitch of a word---
I am. I am. And she is
everything and the absence of all
you have believed a woman to be
and in this utterance, red speech
she is consumed. Dies to be born
and becomes like my love,
a tiny stone in flesh of a peach.
One tree. A hundred tongues
gathering root, living without god or song.
Here is my offering,
the place where a river flows sweet.
Furrow the ground with a hand, gather my seed.
Green will open her leaf in the dark call of night,
soft words of rain. Stone, root, tree.
© 2002 T.E.
Ballard. All rights reserved.
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