Of Pearls and Swine, and All Things Before by William Crawford
she unfolds the mirror into a triptych
paints herself onto it
spread out
a baby bird frozen in her motion
she knows not the price of flight
the sun too close
set to wrinkle untested flesh
a voluptuous grape becomes a wizened raisin
knowing too much perfection
is a mistake
knowing her inheritance
is negligible without the wind
grounded in this beautiful bower
where the cool relief of shade
always ebbs –
a shy lover
when her breath darts like this
excitedly – the way a child breathes while dreaming
her rib cage collapses like an accordion
after a fitful tango
her tiny breasts have Bosch beaks
and seem out of proportion with her frame
which yearns to have its flames smothered
there’s a song sewn in her ear
it taps her tin cochlea
she sighs deeply then tells me
another poetaster is in love with her eyes
as she adjusts her merkin
which she says reminds her of
said poetaster’s goatee
and I’d agree if lice and crumbs were found
squirreled up in it –
dead fruit flies
there’s a grain king from the plains
he’s never seen the sea at night
or his mother naked through a bright keyhole
he’s offered her a ring or something
there’s a lute she has never played
propped up against her vanity
it aches to say something true
to be of use – to know her touch
there’s a bucket of ice beside the bed
it snaps and loses its shape
I’d love to give her a baby
sire a child that could communicate with the dust
which never replies to my questions
though I keep asking
it’s times like these
when her tears pool up all pregnant
fall in garlands of pearls
letters from some forgotten alphabet
descending without a sound
until they leave her face
and stitch the eager barrow
all pretty-eyed and hopeless
at her feet
always at her feet
which stink like the garden
and all the things she buried there.
William Crawford has been writing creatively for over twenty years; he has even been published on odd occasion. He lives in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania and works in the music industry; he is also involved in animal rights. He is currently working on a collection of short fiction and a poetry chapbook. He is not the type of person who will only make a brief appearance in his own life story.
paints herself onto it
spread out
a baby bird frozen in her motion
she knows not the price of flight
the sun too close
set to wrinkle untested flesh
a voluptuous grape becomes a wizened raisin
knowing too much perfection
is a mistake
knowing her inheritance
is negligible without the wind
grounded in this beautiful bower
where the cool relief of shade
always ebbs –
a shy lover
when her breath darts like this
excitedly – the way a child breathes while dreaming
her rib cage collapses like an accordion
after a fitful tango
her tiny breasts have Bosch beaks
and seem out of proportion with her frame
which yearns to have its flames smothered
there’s a song sewn in her ear
it taps her tin cochlea
she sighs deeply then tells me
another poetaster is in love with her eyes
as she adjusts her merkin
which she says reminds her of
said poetaster’s goatee
and I’d agree if lice and crumbs were found
squirreled up in it –
dead fruit flies
there’s a grain king from the plains
he’s never seen the sea at night
or his mother naked through a bright keyhole
he’s offered her a ring or something
there’s a lute she has never played
propped up against her vanity
it aches to say something true
to be of use – to know her touch
there’s a bucket of ice beside the bed
it snaps and loses its shape
I’d love to give her a baby
sire a child that could communicate with the dust
which never replies to my questions
though I keep asking
it’s times like these
when her tears pool up all pregnant
fall in garlands of pearls
letters from some forgotten alphabet
descending without a sound
until they leave her face
and stitch the eager barrow
all pretty-eyed and hopeless
at her feet
always at her feet
which stink like the garden
and all the things she buried there.
William Crawford has been writing creatively for over twenty years; he has even been published on odd occasion. He lives in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania and works in the music industry; he is also involved in animal rights. He is currently working on a collection of short fiction and a poetry chapbook. He is not the type of person who will only make a brief appearance in his own life story.