The Paddock Review

Mourning Cloaks

 

In these ravines and hollows, carved long after

I was made to move through the wild wood,

all bottomless craving—That the unreachable

moon aroused my nighttime appetites, teasing

me along silver paths through starry leaves,

to draw me, galloping over rocks and logs,

nimble as my goat hooves could carry me—

My call to her, wrenched painfully from my

pendulous and pink pointed need, unsheathed,

braying in Spring clearings, hot and panting

beneath her uncaring touch. So, desperate,

I cut my pipes from where the nymphs fled, giggling

in the whistling wind, bound their laughter

in the reeds’ notes, then fingered with my art

to warm her pale cold face. My lesser

nature stood up for her, so that I’d eagerly

satisfy my need, my love caught in between

these two aspects—The animal, with its laughable

guttural croak shook the branches of far-off willows

and fluttered their manes in shimmering surprise,

slow to take their own pleasure in early flowers,

inflorescence of catkins spread to their opposites

on scented breezes—Their seed settles on the wind

and in my nostrils flared to receive their enticements

like the eager bees, hungry with their queen’s thirst

for sweet nourishment, laying more than she weighs!

As it is with all thinking things compelled

to circle, dance, court, sing, display their talents

proudly before their desired mates—These black

caterpillars, crowned like Dis with stinging spikes,

that spin their silk bedclothes in the willows’ skirts

to emerge the elegant, maroon, butterflies

I love, yellow and blue trim teasing at the edge

of somber cloaks—The young forever impatient of death.

….