The Word

So it came to pass the Word grew weary, wounded somewhere it couldn’t recall, miffed. A little lamb lost in the cotton foot- hills, bearing its blood like a wedding gift. Bemused, in sweat we conceived a lonely. Your nakedness cast shadows on the soot that sheathed our window. Cold, the lamb lay down. Between our lips the mountain air grows thin and taut and cracks like so much brittle skin and the silent clock makes a crooked frown, judging arrested hours. Bored, you distil, your disappointment to a bitter thrill. The lamb, aching for the soiled womb’s embrace, warms its hoof on the roof of cloven tongue. Across a bowl of lentil soup your eyes scour me for the living Word to reprise our humbling of the naked grave; the grace we won from a body of songs unsung. We shoot the breeze til, bleeding, it abates and silence yawns the lamb towards the gates of iron. My abattoir mouth awaits.