This World

I don’t know anything but this
world. I know that the river
smells like lilacs some days
and others smells like dung.
I know that there are enough
skeletons in the pastures
and woods for the dog
to bring home a new one
every night, legs dangling and clacking
like a marionette. I know the business
of wasps by day, and the business
of moths of by night, I know
thrill of blood on my skin,
anything’s blood, though I
always wish the thing to live.

Those spiritual Houdinis,
who say they’ve escaped
the body to another plane—
their souls are dancing
or loafing there, or basking in oblivion—
it could be I don’t believe them,
it could be I don’t know why
they have the desire.

It could be I don’t know about cunning
words like peace and happiness.
Gauzy, ephemeral states
to go chasing after.
But wild—that is a state
in which I can abide, until
I have no body,
until I die, until
I find another world.

Because there is always
a perfect blossom to find
in what’s left of the Garden,
and the raw ache for good
in the fallen flesh.

© Jennie Wrisley 2010