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Poetry

The knife was held like night—
quiet in her husband’s hand.

In silence, the umbilicus was snipped.
The moon went on shining.

A mare leapt astride a stallion.
Jerusalem was drowning.

A match dropped.
Hay fired.

Kings slunk away.
The world hung heavy

on her breast.
—Love’s foundling.

A curtain twitched:
unholy neighbors.

A nosey Roman poked
his head in the manger.

Night clambered on
atop another day.

For warmth, the shepherds
lit dried dung.

Close by, a spark or two
of life’s unknown,

fell to a weirding fire.


The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

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