Prepare, prepare.

What then, brave soul?
You sang as if your silence held a secret
And your hands clapped poor shoulders
Mourning
Dawn
What then, what then?

Where now, brave soul?
Where you can dance until his face collapses
From the clouds
Their mountain kissing beards littered with tears
You were his sorceress on that hill
And each peak season cast skirting
Until his earth quaked and plates ratcheted
mechanical
Bowling alleys where you had choreographed an ancient monastic hospitality across a continent and a half
Where now? Where now?

How this brave soul
can unknot
twisting veins
a marble tongue
and sooth the gorgon’s petrified attempt
to love while raging
No trade
No armistice
No gas
Knowing the curse on my lips is tattooed to her womb

Sink here, substrate soul
Yes, you are that lowly worm
And no, there is no death
Except in men
Whose obsession bores my bloodshed
Whose ring cuts my lines with juvenile possession
Whose clown does great service to the queen
Sink here, crown your soil with blood and marching
Sink here, angel of strength in her dolmen swaying
Sink here, Jehovah - that’s security
He a giant
And my circle expanding to populate his fantasies of scarcity and suckling
Sink here, sink here.

Point your arrows, brave soul.
Conical tipped, surprised, in a line
Snuck in because his child eats his art
And he art expands symmetrically inside me with the sweet intimacy of the river becoming the moon and giggling
impressed
until sunrise.
Are we impressed,
or are we just
competing?
Will I ever adjust
to the weight of tradition insisting that it knows better than me how to carry my bags?

Point to synchronicity once so remarkable that you founded a religion between its occurrences and worshipped each puff of smoke
waiting for grace
how it danced
to your light fingered demands.

Point your arrows, point your arrows.

Prepare, brave soul.
Your incantations greet a resurrection of armies
Your christ was born before the white haired wailing
before the soft skinned seal made promises to his god(S) and yours
Your christ sits beside you
So stop smoking
Stop howling orange gold red burnt festoons
His skin was on fire!
His skin was on fire!
His skin was on fire and he begged my grandmother
who washed him in her fountain of pity and ejected him from her kinsline and merciless matriarchy.
Prepare a song for the whistling kites
for the humming birds at war
for those two black egrets
that I mistook for an omen
Prepare, brave soul.
You are to be met.
Prepare, prepare.
Prepare, prepare.