Gavriel
I speak to the angel Gavriel
in the form of a rotted rowan
mass, wet blackened, laced
white with venous fungi, ask
him about you. Your carapace
of fused engravings, mangan
red from bearing time's husk
above your naked hips in flame
and ferment both. O, Gavriel
I begin, with mallards and wild
turkeys puncturing the temple
clearing at its boundary. Wound,
the word conceived at point
of sword, palate and retracted
tongue bleeding with the double
u, is this your word? It's in my
mouth, stinking like a carcass
in the pleural bloom of its ou
I drink. I want to say this word
forever, like a fattened bullfrog
waxing and waxing, cleaved
by the dawn but never dying.
I want to cross the heart's limit.
Though nothing is meant
by such pure speech, the angel
Gavriel asks me about you.
How the sword could plunge
that deep without its razored
handles shattering between
our fingers, clad in vermic
clay and mysterious stones,
could almost touch your mark.