‘Some candle clear burns somewhere I come by.
I muse at how its being puts blissful back
With yellowy moisture mild nights' bear-all black.' - G.M Hopkins
(That winter there were more brambles,
That winter there was us, indoors, trying not to scratch our hands.)
Your duty to remain unopened had bound you,
A form that was long wrapped and ready for fusing worship:
Look at the girl in twine, it is said she is riddled with echo.
I had mustered the last of my unscribed faiths to agree;
We both needed our hands, so risking them was not wise,
There were so many mute sculptures to be shaped from this horror.
Our feet will compose a sunlight from this rain:
(That winter I lied, I had longed for fingers all drifted in scarlet.)
New days will come, of course, with their blunt airless bind;
Trussing the silence of the mouth to the silence of the ear.
And in them we will learn the reality of remembering,
(That winter was the difference between making and repeating,
The numbing web of a story half shared in habit but unshared in meaning)
In your future you will be drawn to magic, your fear will drag you.
Ladies will hold your wrist, read your lines and talk of your destiny.
A scratchless hand will help the divining, a water unmudied by memory.
(That winter we ignored every fixed star that the universe gave us.)
There will be no obscuring that fork as it branches lightening across the life you have left.
(That winter my wrist still shuddered every time I held something heavy,)
A pathetic carriage of the summer's late anger.
The world is always Godless in the split second back-peel of bandage.
But upon witnessing the whiteness of healing, I was alive with the truth of rebirth.
Someone is always forming prayers, something outside of you is always dying.
These days, an age away, I dream that we yoked our damaged hands together,
An alliance against the bite of wind and your dread that they will turn in time to stone.
I see your eyes deepen as the brambles open your flesh without mercy,
And the thrilling thud of grace as we read your healing out-loud between breaths.
We are endlessly alive with every star that shivers electric between tongue and wound.
(That winter there was us, indoors, trying not to scratch our hands.)