don’t speak to me about sweet annihilation, about a love, a god that obliterates when we have lived this perfect obliteration our bodies counting moons and seasons – barely able to contain the exuberance of bird song in spring and the quiet perfect longing of winters’ dark night. for generations we have thrown our bones…
some mornings i find myself on my knees, seep wet to the night’s rain, attending the birth of a goat – the world for a moment still as first feet then nose push unmoving to the waiting world – an inanimate pause while the mother strains, then head and body slippery and warm struggling…