Thursday, February 27, 2014

Nathaniel Mackey, "The Shower of Secret Things"


They ask her
what she’d think
if what she
thought was rock

shook and
rumbled like
hunger, if
what moved inside

the rock was
not its
blood but an
itch on their

tongues. And
where the bones,
what it was
they’d be, refused

its care love
quit its rattle,
while what
blood was in


There was a
man it seems,
whispered himself
thru his

fingers, a
cloth between
her legs, the fabric
wet from her

insides, her
ragged crotch, who
when she’d rise
would look him

down, or so
she’d say. And
this man, she says,
walks thru

her house, has
no clothes
on and carries
himself like her

Twin. Walks her
where when it
rains it not only
pours but

appears to be
sun. And burns like
salt the sand
does, and there

does a dance until
the sun cracks
her lips, the
cracks bleed. The

blood cooks,
drought lures
the “witch”
toward where the

bank they stand
on is. They
throw her in,
and that the river

wet her hair

predicted rain.

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