she-dog, sage

Banging on the sacristy wall,
She-dog cried as if a demon pursued her
And not the other way around.
Hooks in the lion-mane, a sunflower lure
All stained-glass and gold gilded,
She read the story of fallen men-in-hopes,
All about the chiming room
Where severed gods shared wine and oats
And blessed the things that made them.

She of mahogany made, she the hardened wood
Between aisle and row and furrowed bare
Followed scratches in the mantlepiece, scrapes
Along the carving pews, where molded family.

Fingers dip-danced along eddies of stripping wind
From holes that harried from lilac fields, dried
Moss-wood and candle frames, and she daydreamed
Cradles from the nursery, coffins from the cupboard,

Prayed.

She shouldered the podium like kindleweed,
Tippling splinters and firewood from the symbol-bared
Thing. She cried against the sun while waiting,
For all she ever knew was raining.

But. Her eyes loved. Out, from the prison-nave
Out from the uncouth bamboo tufts
Out from overgrown walking stones and staves-
From-fences, she-dog ran as if her past consumed her
And not the other way around.

She passed her family. She passed her cherry-woods
Pressed fingers to mouldering soft, through knot-holes
And scraped squishy fungus ears she tasted faith beneath
Ginkgo and catalpa and tuliptree but they were not hers
She-dog, of scarlet fame, dried her eyes to running-wind

Smelled Lilith between carpet-moss and stonelichen,
Lilith the becomer. Lilith and her little wisdoms.

Row one for the preacher’s kids. Row two for the mayor bared.
Row three for Charlee’s ilk, and all their spendthrift coats.
Row four for the Dime-a-Lads, raggedy and prim.
Row five for the hangman’s wife, and soldier sons from war.
Row six for she-dog’s shame, though her father sang the loudest
Row seven shared between the hobbled, cobbler, carpenter.
Row eight for the gifts for God, and all of God’s belongings.
Row nine saved for their dead, numberless and growing.

"Those of us who so blessed the tree, loved the hangman
At least a moment. And of us dead, the most of us, lusted for his
Compassion."

She, of mahogany grown, tore through field and forest
Instead of planting willow leaves. Instead of planting
Bells.
Her fingers bled from stitching skin
Her toes cramped from the stand.
Her lips were cracked like distressed wood
Elbows stained in brandy.

The demon carved its own. A caricature-stare,
Grain so thin it’d pass the sun
Straight through its skin.

And she-dog the same. "What is your name?"
Lilith hummed, shaping soap against a stone.
"What is your name, oh dan-de-lion? Oh wisp-o-the-sun
What is your yellowing-flame’s name?"

And she-dog tore. Through mask and leafy carpet
Through childhood home and treehouse rungs
And baby’s breath. The baby’s breath. Breathing.

She tore. Willow-fronds she tore. Scalp-hair she tore.
Shame through the window-pane, filth in her fingers.

She-dog pursued the demon-stare, the demon
Pursuing she. "What is your name?" Lilith asked,
And she-dog saw them watching.

Three days watching.

"What is your name?" Nails into sockets.

"Undone." Panting between cattails.

"Finish, then." Face in the soap-stone. Hands and teeth, too.

But she-dog could not, all fallow and caked, all slathered.
She was once. Done. And done. And done. Row three,
For Charlee. Four for the ten-cent kids. And all the gifts behind.
She watched them go. Replaced by the wooden-faced.

War, famine, pride. Hooks in the hanging-tree. Ropes on the branches.
"Your name, so I may name you." She held the stone, round-bellied,
Against carolous cloud and creme-de-sun.

"Alone."

"Oh." Spindle-long-legs, dancing feet,
Stone-toes buried in loam.

Banging on the locust-tree, she-dog cried as if the demon knew her,
And not the other way around. All gravestones staring.