A Poem by Stefanie Bennett
I have aged by my crying river where the water-weed
Harbours a sodden almanac.
In this hemisphere the rain
Upon a parched heart; its shape
Abstruse –, a dropped star.
Well recounted is the quest of ‘the other’. Pacing out
Endurance Road, Wolf-song Woman
Wrote her dust epigraphs
On the boots of fishermen –,
The silver-forks of Dame Fortune’s
High fliers in repose.
From Quebec to Armenia. Bombay. Sydney-town…
She unravelled the dialects:
Strung them lowly
To be mystically
Arpeggioed by diverse
Adepts of the ‘mouth-bow’.
And how rich was the sowing of the Spirit fruit!
Each yield a hoop
Of plenty. Both
Huntress and gatherer, net offerings
Graced the guilded halls
Of ‘poeticised’ pogrom.
How many climbed aboard that bronze saddle
She’ll not say.
What loss flash-flooded the verdant oasis –, self
To this day the ‘seven living sins’ continue
Indigo is the tranquil sleep-walker harnessed
To the crying river –;
Vermilion the sickle moon.
Ash, the oration
In any tone.
The fable! Colourless:
… Pigment it gone.
[Monsanto & Dow – compensate all victims]