All about Carrowmore the lambs
Were blotched blue, belonging.
They were waiting for carnage or
Snuff. This is why they are born
To begin with, to end.
Ruminants do not frighten
At anything--gorge in the soil, butcher
Noise, the mere graze of predators.
All about Carrowmore
The rain quells for three days.
I remember how cold I was, the botched
Job of traveling. And just so.
Wherever I went I came with me.
She buried her bone barrette
In the ground's woolly shaft.
A tear of her hair, an old gift
To the burnt other who went
First. My thick braid, my ornament--
My belonging I
Remember how cold I will be. |
| From The Master Letters by Lucie Brock-Broido, published by Alfred A. Knopf. Copyright © 1997 by Lucie Brock-Broido. Reprinted by permission of the the publisher and author. All rights reserved. |
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