Agony in the Garden Coincidence is delivered just so, as earth is in the Bible, then resolves toward form afterward conveys like the stricken beasts here and there on the road where they make their way up from the Nith River that floods in Spring between the Mennonite cemetery and Settlement Rd. From the air, the Nith’s flow is uterine. The body of a raccoon curls like a shed antler on a scoured pan of road where Don’s goat gate opens, left unlocked since winter to let the deer pass into the next field. It is wired-haired, meteorite bronze, and copper blooded, as if regurgitated from a sky archaic as words, like smite and fallen. Wrath. We see eye for an eye. brim in a buzzard sky cross-stitching the blue, and the white, and that one landing on the gate. Everything here is something else; its emptiness on Easter morning: the abandoned church and the statue of St. Agatha, its amputated breasts like cloves in the roadside’s fleabane, thistle berry, and vetch. And I pass another, repose fixing its eyes on its claws, erect like upturned nails in the arch of a post, as though pausing to watch a familiar miracle, following it as it crawls up the fine hairs of the leg, and into the hardening body. - Paul Hoy
Posted on: Sun, 20 Apr 2014 10:27:50 +0000
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