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May 18, 2008

Wine-dark steam embrace, flicker-light.
Incense rises, I submerge, rise—waves
of my own hair blind, myrrh-soaked;
a rosemary tress blindfold. Water
takes pain from muscle bruised
black, blood rises, condenses,
trickles to nothing. A foot
on the overflow, to keep
abundance in: add heat
to already pinkening
warmth. I think

and soup:
intimate histories
and magical principles,
comfort freely given, received,
chicken rubbed with ginger, garlic,
pepper, lemon after lemon, the whole juice
beaten into eggs until the broth is Mediterranean
sun, the taste a cure for everything. I think about shapes
words make, landscapes of cresting dolphins, oceans of lions,
Nemean and otherwise, swimming the sky. Hunger grows, quietly.

by Jessamyn Smyth

Reading by Beth Adams – Download the MP3

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  1. May 22, 2008 at 11:24 am

    the broth is Mediterranean
    sun, the taste a cure for everything

    Mmm. The contrast between the sharp herbs of the first stanza and the warmth of the second is very nice indeed.

    [Here via a link at Mary Alexandra Agner‘s journal.]

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