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Kristin Bock

08-21-09

On Reflection  
 
Far from the din of the articulated world,
I wanted to be content in an empty room--
a barn on the hillside like a bone,
a limbo of afternoons strung together like cardboard boxes,
to be free of your image--
crown of bees, pail of black water
staggering through the pitiful corn.
I can’t always see through it.
The mind is a pond layered in lilies.
The mind is a pond layered in lilies.
I can’t always see through it
staggering through the pitiful corn.
Crown of Bees, Pail of Black Water,
to be of your image--
a limbo of afternoons strung together like cardboard boxes,
a barn on the hillside like a bone.
I wanted to be content in an empty room
far from the din of the articulated world.  
On Reflection 
Windscape 
Reflection  
A great pain strafed the city. 
Reflection  
The air was a tapestry weft with cries. 
Reflection  
Everywhere, women bandaged
the pietas of soldiers. 
Reflection  
They washed their babies with sand. 
Reflection  
They slept above enormous knives. 
Reflection  
Finally, the sky erupted
with little blue parachutes. 
Reflection  
Torn from faces, veils
waltzed across the plaza, 
Reflection  
which was like someone
leaving a wedding ring 
Reflection  
inside the body of a bride.  
Reflection 
Because You Refuse to Speak 
Reflection  
A hammer sounds
between two mountains. 
Reflection  
White butterflies scribble
in tall grass. 
Reflection  
A passing cloud.  
Reflection  
Out on the pond, a snake
inside a swan glides past.  
Reflection  
The Hymn of the Pearl to the Moon 
Reflection  
Cast in your image
                      and into darkness 
Reflection  
we are luminous nudes
Reflection  
bathing
         in firelight
                      by cave pools 
Reflection  
mistaking our reflections
                                for gods.  
Reflection  
Restoring the Fourteen Stations of the Cross 
Reflection  Reflection  
I looked down on a mountain, on a cry rising up from the cracked
earth.  I looked down on the swine and the cattle, and they moaned a
little.  And I looked down on the tiny beings with their tiny tools, and
a few looked back and shuddered. I looked on their blades slung low
on their hips, their ropes and whips, their hem-stained gowns, their
field of filthy crosses. And it was good. And looked down then on
a shepherd lost. I moved over his path in the dust, and it vanished
under my great fist. This too was good. He stumbled. He bled over
stones. Everything was as it should be. I painted him pale and thin
as parchment. I drained blood from his crown thick and dark like

oxblood. In the end, his nimbus crumbled in my fingers. And when he

looked up into the firmament— I withdrew from him, from all of them.

 

                    -from Cloisters