Sometime after the Killing
Penance, mourning, frail necklace of resolve,
all long discarded. When the blade of sky
eases against the throat of what I decided is dawn,
when internal fire is ash and I feel, again,
chill other men feel, I stand, dark in my nature,
and shake free the painting of snow.
Study briefly the cold harvest of my fields —
Diamond glint of steel. Hand clenching hoarfrost.
A stiff boot. Their ice-kissed faces — their final
frenzy, carved forever by the lesson I bring.
I care nothing for this world or its hills of dead,
for prayers drowned in the red tide of my eyes,
nothing for what gods have so blessed me.
I decide what is south, continue across the glacier
totaling this rough world — solitary soldier, ant
circling on a cube of ice. Earth buries its own;
the ant steps always beyond its trail,
signatured in blood, blown clean and blind again.
I remember my mother, or believe that I do,
rocking me under dreams that smelled of salt,
where pale birds screeched as they dropped,
beaks furious against a sun that rose
and set like a brilliant clock, where the warm sea
used to be, and we lived until the storms.