Clumps of sticks swing at the wind.
Dry wind. Enough to peel back black
Bark from black stumps in this circle
Around the still bog water. Yellow water,
Yellow grass, and the black crows calling.
The crows tell a story, which is an old story.
Old as the song the dry wind sings
Through the black bark and dead grass.
Old as anger. Crumbling in the grass,
Heavy footprints. The boys have run away.
They are laughing boys. And dirty.
Dirty from bog water and blood.
Their laughter is dirty and smells of iron.
Dry wind. Her body bends in the wind, twisting
In her white dress, a ruined dress,
Stains seeping dark from the dark triangle
Of her young cunt. Mouth open. Empty mouth.
No, not really empty at all, empty only
Of her little pink tongue. Now oozing,
Wet and hot, rent open, like the inside
Of some swollen fruit gone near to rot.
Clumps of sticks grow from stumps
Where her hands were and are not now. Claw
And claw at the wind. At her own chest.
Where do the hands lie? Folded
Or flung apart? Do they miss each other?
What now tastes the tongue?
Stale bog-wafer of still water-sodden dirt?
Crows are crying their dry cries. Wet mouth,
How to cry? How to tell the story? How
To sing? Song, story both are spilling
Warm and red. Flies are coming.
Green-gold swarm. Returning the song
Of the wind and the crows and the far-flung
Tongue and the stick-claws clawing with
their terrible hunger, terrible hoarseness.
But the swarm song is low. Low tone.
Low in the grass. A song without iron. Low
Song in the yellow grass in the red sun.
Song of things blessed and bled.
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