Poem (Coriolanus) Put down my name and stepped toward The awful thinking. Where is wound? Where harm? I entered the city gates and fought alone. Wounds? Mouths? Lethe is a river in a vein — pulsing through a body that bears a name others name — forgetful behind the eyes. Where is wound? Where harm? I fought alone inside the bloody chambers, weak-walled chambers, stepping through the door as they opened, as I knew they’d open, frantic beneath the arch. The supplicants, the mendicants — where are they? Where the ragged wives clutching to their breasts babes that suck even as they wail? Where the empty hands my mercy fills? Where is mercy? Where wound? I opened my hand to drop my sword but held no sword. Bent down to drink but found myself kneeling by the river. My body pulsed with the tremors in the ground. The fault existed below me. It was not me who was the source. I waited. The blood in my mouth waited. In my breath I heard voices muttering as wind mutters breath through a room. The distance shouted as it neared a sword held by an arm wounded by other arms. Where are eyes inside the wounds? Where mouths? He saw me as one sees a river dividing the fields from the city. The city was in me. I held out my hands and looked at the ground. “Where is mercy?” I spoke at his hand empty as it struck the ground. Then he was kneeling. Then I saw his eyes. Then he spoke. I entered the city gates and fought alone. They name me after cities I conquer. I entered. I fought. The old men who mourn the dirt they sleep in — Whose lament in dust names me? Where are they? Speak. Where are they? Speak and tell me my name. We who were speaking were speaking to the river in the ground.
Posted on: Wed, 03 Jul 2013 13:24:15 +0000
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