Carrowmore

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All about Carrowmore the lambs
Were blotched blue, belonging.

They were waiting for carnage or
Snuff. This is why they are born

To begin with, to end.
Ruminants do not frighten

At anything--gorge in the soil, butcher
Noise, the mere graze of predators.

All about Carrowmore
The rain quells for three days.

I remember I cold I was, the botched
Job of travelling. And just so.

Wherever I went I came with me.
She buried her bone barrette

In the ground's woolly shaft.
A tear of her hair, an old gift

To the burnt other who went
First. My thick braid, my ornament--

My belonging I
Remember how cold I will be.

--Lucie Brock-Broido

x

And now I must make another shot of espresso and work on my own poems.

Comments

[ballytivnan.livejournal.com]

aww, lucy. I can't read her poems without seeing her crazy long hair & hearing her voice & remembering her wild stories. if you ever get the chance to take a class with her, do it.

[black-dawning.livejournal.com]

She's great. I'm a student of hers. I'm going to hang in her apartment sometime this week. She's wonderful.