Hyacinth
The soil is soiled by the blood of a child,
the soil is soiled
the soil is soiled by blood,
a flower blooms, reborn in the musty breaths
of layered gray, in the musty breaths
of mountain caves, in the musty breaths
from the west near Thrace.
In the comfort of angels a child has starved,
in the comfort of angels
in the comfort of angels a child,
the last of his soprano muffled by a rush,
a clash of altos in the winds of green,
roots held down by first and second priests,
in the rush of wind a child has starved.
The child is laid upon a bed
of ash and willow, dirt and leaves,
under a blanket, the black leather of night.
To mourn at the end and in the shortness of days,
to mourn in the weary corners of grief,
to mourn in darkness, hour after hour
in the black tar mastic,
cold whore moan
of lonely nights,
we mourn, we mourn, we mourn.
When the hot sick panic begins to boil,
when the hot sick panic
when the hot sick panic begins,
nothing but emphatic Holy static
nothing but Holy static
nothing but
nothing but Holy
nothing.
The days grow longer and the weight shifts,
the hell of night begins to lift,
spring’s firstborn spills from blue,
bulbs upturned at the ends of their stems.
The Holy static slowly fades away,
the Holy static slowly
the Holy static slowly fades,
piles of cold dry bones near the mouths of caves
brought back to life by the will of the wind,
brought back to life by the will of his breath,
to the west in vanished layers,
layers and layers and layers of gray. Still
every year we mourn in darkness,
every year we mourn the blood of a child
starved in the comfort of angels, every year
we mourn for Hyacinth
in the tight black leather of night.
*First appeared in SHAMPOO.
**Winner of the Mark Fischer Poetry Prize
