August 1, 2010

Our vintage forest has come down:  cedar purer than
fir in his eye.  I flock modest for luck reasons,
let it be cut off, cast mine down to the potter for every band
that was bound by him broke.  Let’s make these sheep
into horses he’ll blind and astonish as me, the very land
mourns into the eye holes of the horses women must gather.
No, let’s make them straightaway work this time.  Best believe
a woman can be a soldier, rough garmented, gun at her hip,
and she had him sleep at her knees for the need was there.
I aim deadly cause papa trained me right, and bled to the
new moon when it’s my time, I say Sister-Mary; he, pull back.
A leopard he observes the clearcut, built an air house
by stones for his seven eyes, each on lookout; I’ve no firstborn,
laid hold upon the skirt of his mantle, and it rent.


Your blocks bring you prayer.  Whoredom
& wine & new wine take away the heart from under his gut
needs, have caused him to err from his faculties a little
squinch owl, for he mourns each beast of the field, made home
of the dogwood branch in mama’s yard.  I’ve not been wholesome:
harlot strive at the priest’s good hands, flagon
of whiskey under his desk legged, for I went after each man balled fists
having no choice, I made them the forest
the beasts graze, yet needed you, good sire,
not by breaking out or by my lack of knowing, daughters
commit whoring for women reasons, your spouses’
backsliding heifers, I let them alone, gave you.

This new wine thorns up his tabernacle will thrust
up a hemlock the rooftop will see burning.




Shelly Taylor is the author of Black-Eyed Heifer (Tarpaulin Sky Press, 2010), Land Wide to Get a Hold Lost In (Dancing Girl Press, 2009), and Peaches the Yes-Girl (Portable Press at Yo-Yo Labs, 2008).  Born in southern Georgia, she currently lives in Tucson, Arizona.

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