A christmas — no, boxing day–in july present from here to you.

A new one from Dana Ward:

A Wreath

To hang from the walls
I’m going to need nails
those can be silver or blue.
If I fail to fix the wreath there in my face
where I want it
to be as if love’s mother tongue
the living, walking definition of a sweetheart
who hated to always be noticed as such
imperial yeomanry does it.
I don’t think the wall is a soft enough spot
neither my gallery thigh
to protect us from the evil eye
from the wicked people
from wild beasts
and from all others.

I wanted to be
like the wreath in its circuit
endlessly circling back on itself
or the princess who chides her own blood
its victorian rose,
& the baby’s breath there not dispelled.
To be held in the belleweather shame
of an unflinching beauty
horseradish more bitter than juniper berry
the People’s Republic of Meat, Cake, and Wine
for which she would give up her life.

July 26, 2006 * 2:15 am

July 21, 2006 * 10:56 pm

July 14, 2006 * 2:25 am

July 14, 2006 * 2:19 am

July 13, 2006 * 3:46 pm

July 13, 2006 * 3:40 pm

July 13, 2006 * 3:33 pm

July 12, 2006 * 5:37 pm

July 12, 2006 * 5:23 pm

July 12, 2006 * 5:18 pm

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