Saturday, February 4, 2012

“Chipa” © Mike Absalom January 3rd 2012

The scent of wet wood hand
sawn on a January morning
returns to me again the
sunless sweetness of solitude.
I have cut this cottonwood
many times before
but always,
in a sleight of hand
impossible to follow,
leaves gush like leaking sap
from its dead branches.
I have even seen flowers
burst with the speed of comets
from out of the blotchy bark.
They scatter as turf ash does
into the wind-blown skies,
and sometimes I scatter with
for they are able to whirl me
in a dervish dance
deep into my own silence.

A blue dragon fly,
another lotus beast
risen from the mud of the
to put a diadem into the sunless
floated towards me this
riding on a stream,
like the Virgin of Ca’acupé,
sparkling with a halo of tiny
each carrying a plate of
freshly baked chipa.
Bread of Heaven, it seems,
although today I would have
preferred wine.
Another person
might have seen them as
But then
another person
might not know how to get
on bread.

These flashbacks come more
often now.
I suppose it is Age,
that batty old projectionist,
starting to rewind the
Or a perhaps a closer
to the Black Hole of Death
has started to stretch those
parts of me
that alcohol was never able
to reach.

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