M A T T H E W  H E N R I K S E N
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A LOVE POEM IN FROG'S BREATH

 

 

 

The human psyche is the subject of love.
When Marge returns from the frozen islands
she'll be unborn. Penitent and rustless,
body bronzy, afterthought. There was,
in that mist, God, hovering in the white.

(Speechless, the rumor of her crossed the mind,
in a dress of fishes, a lifting flutter.)

She spoke the water. So spoke the sun
blended upon the water. The water
was witless and calculated rust. The

wrist of the angel came back to
haunt her. Punishment has need

to uncover. She'll stand swaddled in rays of milk

howling at her bones to cease and believe.

 

 

n e x t

 

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