MUD-ANGELS
These three mud-clay homunculi
hung from pink ribbons
in my tent – lumpy remains
from some Dance of Death? My
mother must have brought them back
from Mexico (mud-angels
to guard her potter’s wheel).
Coatlicue of Quauhnahuac,
adamant Madre of encrusted Time!
Out of your bottomland
whirls eye-in-hand –
out of Monk’s Mound’s perennial slime...
Clay muscles rolling stone – conducting
veinous electricity –
out of nothing come to be
loaves loafing from the oven (rising,
singing). A moss-green Isis by the Nile
(or in West Branch) you
rain your rivers blue,
compassionate Magdalen – your smile
lifts Jesús from the grave, raises
Enrique from the cemetery
too (some ordinary
day on Earth). Hobo Jay cleanses
all hearts, rinses eyes with river-clay –
sighs, EPHPHATHA. From boulders
God can lift up equal daughters,
equal sons... just look at buried Henry-manqué!
7.10.18
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