The Dawn and Burial Birth

by nick sirianno

The Dawn and Burial Birth

 

Twas gone who gave the gold-wing dawn

who lost her lofted lie

and married with goodbye

who grew her yawning tide two

eyes and shadows gone gliding

in the gold-grass groom to be

 

wed the waning seasons free and sought

calm from the Canallers green and splintered

oars and pews to seat swans

and pintails and bufflehead blue across

the goldfinch grey and wilted hay lay

seasons sweet to rest anew

 

Late we wait the masthead lurking long

the yelps that calm our darkening days of dawn

who holds her arms to seasons young

and silos thoughts of deepening

 

Cattail catch the brimming gold

the silver ice whose hardened hold

tells not but far nor seasons near

but thanks the dawn of nigh and near

for saying do at morning new and mourning

night and music too

 

When the lashless sky portrays a bound

of roundless shiftless seas and cracks

the bulwarks steady ease and fills

the Red whose running knees buckle, sink

and reach for please, God ambers olive leaves

 

the silver hand that held the chapel high

and dappled clouds that hilled and sighed

and waved the voyage sea boat by

so dawn could tuckle in sleeping

to wince a satin prayer of weeping

for night to call the salty blacks

and dawn dark gashes down their backs

the sutured roots the tigers rats

the headless stems in piles and stacks

 

Columbus head and hard he hailed to lee to

lands a fury frowned a famished sea

the crack, the wound, the wound, the whip, the snap

the dawn the sky a golden sap

the song of thunder coming back

the wicker womb a boney trap

shoulder to shoulder back to back

shoulder to shoulder back to back

shoulder to shoulder back to back

the fleas and ticks and lips and rats

the ship it banged it bobbed it tacked

the men they brawled

the women scraped

the captain groped and grabbed and slapped

the hatches blew, the mast it cracked

with land in sight they drifted, trapped.

 

Her purple lids that hung and heavy swung and wooed and wailed

some babies caught in musket fire smoke and heavy hail

the captain foolish captain clung unto his grail

his grave and stupid knave that pushed the seas into his sails

so thought the his crimson hand that sunk the gavel and the stand

took the count and jury clan asunder down to sea and sand

 

In the morning left a trillium sea

still and lifeless her Iris breaths

her pregnant belly floats and grieves

with skin as dark as chrysanthemum seas she prays

 

the orchid in the window at the farmhouse

hung petals yellow clouds blossom in the grave bloom

the tannin sheets made in the field

in the evening

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