Sunday, 1 May 2016

Sunday Poem

First was the claw and the claw
clasping clay, closing in breath. 
More turns to them than to sea-snails,
brain and gut ravelled like yarn 
into clews to be threaded through.
Like Theseus, I was closed-in 
with an abomination of bestial desire:
she wanted to be nailed by a bull 
and she did a bull and bore
a bull-of-a-thing with a menacing club. 
It's with this thought that I'm locked,
throughout this maze that I travel. 
I've no key, no clue: only minatory echoes
and shadows to see it through.

By Asa Boxer, from Etymologies (with essay by David-Antoine Williams, 
Anstruther Press, 2016)

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