The Palace of Bones

Black Magic

Black Magic Already I am standing at my son’s grave. Feet numb against the stone, The priests whispering for a song to soothe me. The sky, half there, floods with darkness, Folds up, wrinkled and deranged, Humble and tired of its own mysteries. The fever won’t go down. The moon won’t go down. My body’s still full with him And all the things that will outlast us; Vultures, rain, pianos, even the apple trees Reviving after the resting of the ice, Anchored to the earth always, Hovered above the varnished barnyards, Stiff and strong as sleepless soldiers. His fingers still bleed inside me. His cradle still bleeds with life. The night carries all the shades of the dead. 3 You are reading copyrighted material published by Ohio University Press/Swallow Press. Unauthorized posting, copying, or distributing of this work except as permitted under U.S. copyright law is illegal and injures the author and publisher. Black as black magic. The handwriting on the grave, The dates, sure as thunder And wrong as God himself, Who somehow finds time To trim his beard and turn His body into wine and bread. Urns full of holy water. The bridge is no longer there. The magnolia is a masterpiece for death; The iris a symbol of the ill spirit, And I fill my mouth with them, already, I kiss each eyelid and collect twigs For an afternoon fire that burns, Past the night, deserted, vexed, Sturdy as an iron gate Around the neck of heaven. 4 You are reading copyrighted material published by Ohio University Press/Swallow Press. Unauthorized posting, copying, or distributing of this work except as permitted under U.S. copyright law is illegal and injures the author and publisher. ...